


Smoke and Mirrors Series

by idyll



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-22
Updated: 2004-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after Redefinition in season two, Gunn and Lindsey run into each other. That's how it starts. The whys are more complicated. All canon remains unharmed by the having of the sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dank Place to Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two guys in a bar, yo. This is how it starts.

"So, a guy walks into a bar..."

Sandy blond/brown head lifts, and Gunn's staring into bleary blue eyes that are angry and bitter, which just makes them seem sad.

"Go away," Lindsey mutters.

Gunn sits across from him, sets his draft beer on the table and arches a brow. "You haven't even heard the punch line yet. So, a guy walks into a bar, and he's got this fake hand, right?"

The bottle of whiskey in Lindsey's hand slams down on the table hard enough to send beer sloshing over the sides of Gunn's glass.

"I'm off duty," Lindsey growls at him, but there's nothing behind it--he sounds about as tired as Gunn feels. "No evilness going on here. Why don't you just toddle on back to your own table?"

Gunn snorts a little and leans back. "Think your waitress might disagree about the evilness," he says, eyes flickering to where the woman in question was holding her apron to the side and trying to wipe off whatever it was that Lindsey threw at her.

Lindsey looks down again, light brown hand reaching out to snag his bottle and tip it to the side, tumbling liquid into his glass. Gunn brings his beer to his lips, takes a long, deep sip that should be refreshing because the beer is chilled, and the glass is like ice in his hands, but it's like something tepid going down.

Studies the man across from him, slouched in his seat, tie dangling forgotten, suit jacket a puddle on the floor behind him after having falling off the back of his chair. And the face. Damn. All curled lips and lowered brow. Right now, Lindsey is in the middle of setting up a brawl. Gunn knows the signs. Start with the waitress, and whatever fool is stupid enough to not notice the look on your face, and get everyone riled a little at a time. So that one of them will snap and it'll blow up like no one's business.

"Lawyer boy," he says curtly, then waits for Lindsey to look up. "When I'm in the mood for a drink or two? I come here. It's nice. It's cheap. It's *calm*, even. You want a free for all? Take it somewhere else."

There's a flicker, a wave of blue from dark to light, a bright alcohol sparkle that is dulled by a reality that even pure grain moonshine can't forget, and Gunn just can't look away.

Lindsey's suit might have looked sharp at six this morning, but right now it's like a too-big suit some bratty little kid put on for a school dance. There's something rough around the edges in him--something mean, too--and Gunn wonders if it's the booze or the situation that's brought it out, or if Lindsey just covers it up normally. Slicks it down nice and smooth behind his white, white smile and expensive tailored suits.

Doesn't matter what it is, or where it hides. It's there, and Gunn knows what it is. Recognizes it because it's in him, and it's in everyone he grew up with, everyone he fought with side-by-side in the streets. Whatever kind of lifestyle Lindsey has now, he ain't always had it.

Lindsey's glaring at him, and Gunn just tilts his head back, looks down at him and watches that meanness flare into something cruel. Gunn stretches his legs out, crosses his ankles, and keeps looking down. That cruel edge in Lindsey's eyes settles back to mean, then fades away. Yeah, just like that.

"So, what?" Lindsey says sharply. "We're going to be drinking buddies? Thanks, but I don't need one."

"Me neither," Gunn replies. "But, you know, I figure if sitting here is going to keep my joint from getting busted up...well, I can take one for the team."

That sharp edge comes bursting back when Gunn says "team", but he holds up his hands, watching Lindsey very, very carefully. "I don't know about you," he says slowly, deliberately, "but when I go out for a drink, it's usually to not think about all the shit."

Lindsey narrows his eyes, then nods shortly. "Fine."

Gunn brings his beer to his lips again, finishes the last of it, and waves the waitress over. She braces herself, then comes to the table, her smile forced and her back stiff. She's only in her late twenties, but the pinched features and the poodle perm ages her. Looks like she's in her mid thirties. Gunn knows she's got two kids at home, a man that took off when she was still pregnant with the second, and makes three bucks an hour before tips. He's been needing a drink or two a lot lately.

"Another MGD, Paula," he says pleasantly, meeting her eyes dead on. "And a pitcher of water with two glasses."

Paula's smile becomes a little more sincere, and relieved. "Sure thing, Gunn," she says, neatly swiping his empty glass and striding off to the bar.

Lindsey has retreated to his side of the table in all ways. Might as well be a wall up between him and Gunn. He's hunched over, one arm stretched out so that he can hold his glass, with his gimp hand resting on his lip, oh-so-neatly hidden from view.

Paula brings the water, the glasses, and sets them down in front of Gunn. He's been running a tab, and he thinks Lindsey paid for the bottle of whiskey as soon as he got it. He motions for Paula to stay a moment, and pulls a couple of bills out of his pocket.

"Here you go," he says, holding them out to her. "Know it can't be a treat dealing with all of us tonight. You'd think there's a full moon or something."

Her glance skitters from Gunn over to Lindsey, then around the crowded bar. It's a rough group tonight. Lot of people trying not to think, and getting belligerent in the process. She takes the bills with a tiny grin, a quick wink, and tucks them in her apron pocket as she walks away.

"You're a real prince, aren't you?" Lindsey mutters, the words slurred around the edges.

Gunn shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, then reaches for the water. "Paula's had a hard time making ends meet," he says, pouring two glasses of water. He pushes one in Lindsey's direction and points at the other man. "Drink it. You'll thank me in the morning."

"Fuck I will," Lindsey snaps. "And I don't need a nursemaid." His face scrunches up--oh, and there's that belligerence; Gunn knew it would make an appearance. "And what the hell do you care what I feel like in the morning, huh? Is this some plan to make my life even more fucked up? Because, I think you and yours have done enough of that."

Very deliberately, Lindsey swings the prosthetic arm up on the table. Gunn sees the motion in his peripheral vision, but keeps his eyes on Lindsey's and laughs.

"Somehow, I think you're making your life unlivable enough on your own. Don't really need anyone else's help with that." He lifts a shoulder. "Besides, I already told you; I come here to not think. You might want to try it. Works better than wallowing."

"Yeah, I'll take that under advisement," Lindsey grunts, but he's staring at Gunn all confused. Like he doesn't know what the catch is, what the real deal is. Gunn just waits, and doesn't acknowledge the movement when Lindsey reaches for the water.

Neither one of them says anything for a while, but they look at each other plenty. Sometimes short, quick glances. Other times, long, hard stares. And then there are the times when they both look at each other at the same time, and there's a thread of intensity that runs between them.

Gunn's never thought much about Lindsey, really. He's a lawyer, and that job title pretty much categorizes him in all ways for Gunn--never mind the fact that he works for Wolfram &amp; Hart, which makes him even more evil than a garden variety lawyer. But right now? Now Gunn wonders if Lindsey really is evil, or if he's just doing a job.

And that fucks with his head. It makes him think that the great big chasm of gray he's always avoided isn't as avoidable as he's always thought. Like he really needs that pointed out again. If there's one thing he's really trying not to think about, it's the grayness that is Angel lately, with his soul still attached while he acts like it isn't.

Maybe even the grayness in himself, too, because he can't completely bring himself to think that *everything* Angel has done lately is all bad. Some of it? Well, some of it would have been damn good if Angel wasn't all half-crazed and shit. Good things, done for the wrong reasons. Gunn wonders if they're any better than bad things, done for the right reasons. Or maybe they're the same; just things that get done.

Leans closer, takes a closer look at Lindsey and wonders if he's reflected in more than just the other man's eyes, wonders how much closer he'll have to get to find out.

***

Lindsey forgets about the bottle of whiskey. Keeps drinking the water and staring at Angel's little lackey, sprawled across from him like the chair had his goddamn name written on it. Maybe it did. Who the hell knows? Lindsey doesn't. Not anymore. That not thinking thing Gunn suggested is looking better and better, and Lindsey crunches an ice cube with his back teeth, smiling grimly at the coldness making his teeth scream.

"You might as well be drinking horse piss," he tells Gunn.

Gunn arches a brow. "Nothing wrong with MGD," he says with certainty, taking a nice long gulp of it from his glass. "And you're one to talk; I can smell the fumes from that bottle all the way over here. What the hell is that, turpentine?"

His lips twitch at disgusted look on Gunn's face. "Close enough," he admits. "Not really the greatest top shelf in here."

"You don't come here for the high end booze," Gunn tells him. "You come here for a dank place to drink."

"True enough," Lindsey agrees, and they fall silent again.

Lindsey stares down at his plastic hand, beached on the table like a whale on the sand. Drains his water down to the ice, which rattles in his glass as he sets it down hard and looks at Gunn.

He's got to be in just as bad shape as Lindsey himself is. All paths lead back to Angel. And Darla. And Wolfram &amp; Hart. But Gunn looks like it takes no effort at all not to think about it, and Lindsey's not sure if it's because Gunn's really good at hiding it, or if he's just got a clean and easy take on it. If it's cut and dried for the street kid who's always known where he stood.

Lindsey doesn't think that it's about where a person stands, though. He knows where he stands, and it hasn't done him a bit of good lately. Angel's off the deep end, but not the way Lindsey intended. Darla is so many things that Lindsey can't even think of her without calling up a dozen different emotions that don't match up along the edges, and instead just grate against each other like nails on a chalkboard.

Gunn lowers his head, eyes lifted up in an order, a command. Lindsey realizes he's got his hand wrapped around his glass and is slamming it down, again and again, on the table. Notices his face is drawn tight in a scowl. His body goes slack and still a little at a time, and his mind gets emptier and emptier, under the weight of that light brown gaze.

"How many of those have you had?" Lindsey asks Gunn, only vaguely aware that he's doing it.

"Three," Gunn says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

Lindsey reaches in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and drops a fifty on the table, now entirely aware of what he's doing.

"I've had half a bottle of cheap whiskey," he says as he stands and tucks his wallet away again. Gunn frowns at him and Lindsey shrugs, runs his hand through his hair. "I need a ride home," he clarifies.

Dark brows lift in surprise, then lower in consideration, and Lindsey just waits. He has enough cash on him to get a taxi to Las Vegas if he wanted to, and Gunn's too smart not to realize it.

"Don't forget your jacket," Gunn says as he gets to his feet.

It's typical Los Angeles once they step outside. Bright circles of light that keep their distance from one another, faint haze in the air that's thick on the way in and lacking on the way out. Gunn jerks his head to the left, and Lindsey follows him down the street, around a corner, and comes to a dead stop when he sees the truck.

"What?" Gunn asks archly, unlocking the passenger side door. "Not classy enough for you?"

Lindsey shakes his head, smiling. "It's a nice truck."

Gunn tilts his head to the side, and his lips tilt up at the corners just a little. He opens the door, waving at Lindsey with the hand still holding the keys. "Get in."

Lindsey does, a lot more easily than Gunn was expecting, if his quick blinks are anything to go by. But Lindsey's got practice hiking himself up, sliding halfway in, bracing himself on the door jam, then sliding the rest of the way in. It's instinctual to him, and it's the only thing that didn't require an adjustment after he lost his hand.

The interior of the truck is neat, clean, if not in the best of shape. But it's the original dash, with the original components, and Lindsey can respect that. Really he can.

They're on their way before Lindsey really notices, and he watches Gunn steer, watches both hands shift and slide along the wheel, sees the muscles in Gunn's leg bunch and release as he brakes or accelerates. There's an effortlessness to it all that Lindsey remembers from back when he had both hands, and he didn't have to stop and think about every motion he made so that he didn't do something stupid like reach for a class with his mock hand.

But it's more than that. There's an economy of motion there that Lindsey has never mastered, two handed or one handed. He's always been known to rifle a hand through his hair, rub the back of his neck, jerk at his tie--something, anything. In motion more often than not, even if the shifting of his shoulders and back isn't always noticed by anyone else. At the red lights, though, Gunn is still, and not in an unnatural manner.

Lindsey retracts his hand when he realizes he's running it across the dashboard, along the battered surface that's shiny with Armor All and impeccably dust free. Takes a breath, rests his hand on his knee and tries to keep it as still as the fake one.

And he thinks he's doing it, too. Doesn't remember bringing it to his head and tangling his fingers through his hair, until Gunn's hand brushes his away, deftly, and then returns to the steering wheel in the space of two seconds.

"Hair's fine; leave it be," Gunn says evenly, eyes on the road.

During the last few twists and turns to Lindsey's apartment, he notices that Gunn's eyes aren't nearly as still as the rest of him. They scan and peer the road and the streets restlessly. And fall on Lindsey pretty damn often. He feels like he's under a microscope with the way Gunn's gaze bores into him. Turns and meets that gaze, defensive, but finds nothing challenging in them, just something wide and intense.

Gunn coasts to a stop in front of Lindsey's building, foot on the brake, then gives him that gaze again. Lindsey's not fidgeting, and he's not thinking much of anything except what his chances are of getting Gunn to come upstairs. Gets drank up by those shiny brown eyes and figures the chance is pretty good, because Gunn's still looking a minute later.

"Garage is around the side," he tells Gunn.

Eyes not moving, Gunn nods his head once, then lifts his foot off the brake.


	2. White Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in Lindsey's apartment?

Gunn's not sure if what he's doing qualifies as stupid, but he doesn't think so. He's gone on instinct most of his life, and his gut is just pulling and tugging him along.

Where isn't really all that clear yet. Right now it's getting in the elevator to go up to Lindsey's apartment. Lindsey hits the floor button about eight times in two seconds and Gunn takes hold of his wrist and pulls his hand away from the buttons.

Lindsey starts like someone's just snuck up behind him and screamed "Boo", and his eyes fly to Gunn's.

Gunn is the aficionado of brown eyes. Seen them in every shade and hue. Been locked just like this with dozens of them in male and female bodies. Brown eyes, Gunn knows from experience, are soft, even when they're hard. They absorb. Take things in and soak them up. Lindsey's blue eyes are something alien. They're too clear and bright to actually soak anything up. It's like everything Gunn's sending out just bounces back and hits him right in the chest.

There are tiny bits of yellow around Lindsey's pupil, like sparks of the sun in a summer sky--and, *day-um*, that sounds so very girly. But the thought stays. Lindsey's eyes are as crisp and unknowable as the sky. It makes Gunn want to stare and stare until he can see past the surface. Until what's hitting him right in the chest isn't just what he's sending out. Until he actually gets to *Lindsey*, because that's what he wants to see. He wants to see the man in the eyes. Wants to see if that man looks anything like him.

Gunn's still holding Lindsey's wrist and they're climbing higher in the building, the ascent making Gunn feel leaden. Lindsey's gaze is searching for Gunn's motives, looking for the shank that he thinks is going to get rammed into his gut when he least expects it. Gunn wonders if Lindsey only functions at extremes--total or no trust. Gives someone everything or nothing.

He rubs his thumb along the pad of Lindsey's thumb and gets a little clenching in his stomach at the sensation, at the feel of Lindsey's pulse throbbing just under the skin. He smiles at Lindsey when the elevator stops and releases the other man's hand with a lingering touch that has Lindsey sucking in a breath.

The doors open and Lindsey blinks once then steps out. Gunn follows him down a short hall that's nicer than his apartment. Damn. Get him a fridge and a television and he could live in the hallway. Sleep right on that nifty sofa in the open area next to the elevator banks.

Lindsey opens his door and Gunn steps into the apartment behind him. The place is swank and Gunn has the urge to wipe his feet and tuck his hands in his pockets. Lindsey stalks right to a chair and strips his suit jacket off, tossing it aside and rifling his hand through his hair.

Gunn watches the other man fidget and is kind of awed. It's like there's electricity crackling under Lindsey's skin, the way he can't be still. He wants to go over there and give Lindsey a reason to be moving around like something's itching under his skin. But he made his intent clear in the elevator, and it's up to Lindsey now.

Up to Lindsey to make a move if he wants something to happen. Gunn thinks he does, otherwise he wouldn't have been invited up. As for why...he's got no clue about what made Lindsey invite him up. Just like Lindsey's probably got no idea why he agreed to come up.

A little smile curls at Lindsey's mouth and his lids are kind of lowered. Gunn feels the palms of his hands throb and tingle. Yeah, there's a reason for this, but that don't mean there isn't anything else. Because Lindsey sexier than all get out. He's got that pouty mouth and the broad chest, and some kind of overall sultry thing going. Yeah, sultry. Like a hot summer day, with porches and lemonade--what the *hell* is Lindsey bringing out in him? Because he's not digging this flowery shit.

Oh, but he is digging the fact that Lindsey has moved. *Is* moving. Closer. Towards Gunn. He stops less than a foot away, and Gunn looks down at him. Something like a minute goes by, Lindsey twitching and shifting the entire time.

"Got anything to drink up in here?" Gunn asks with a smirk.

Lindsey makes an irritated noise. "I didn't invite you up here for a damn drink!"

Gunn chuckles a little, then moves closer until there's only an inch or so between them. "No? Then what did you ask me up for?"

If Gunn were to take a deep breath, his chest would brush against Lindsey's, they're that close. But he keeps his breathing easy, waits while Lindsey's eyes go wide for a long moment, then narrow. Gunn lowers his head when Lindsey lifts his, and a lot of first kisses are awkward, in Gunn's experience, but this one isn't because they take their time at first, go slow and easy.

Lindsey's lips settle over his, mostly closed. They just kind of slot perfectly against Gunn's and rest there, and Gunn's eyes drift shut as he brings a hand to the back of Lindsey's neck, fingers brushing against his hair. He feels Lindsey's mouth move and he mimics the motion, their lips opening and closing against each other.

Gunn presses the heel of his hand against the nape of Lindsey's neck, then drags it up so that his fingers can tangle in that blondish brown hair. His tongue slips out, and he slides it along Lindsey's lower lip. Lindsey's mouth parts some more, and he takes in a short breath. Then his hands reach for Gunn. The right one just sits at his waist, but the left takes hold of his waistband and pulls him closer, then moves up and settles high on Gunn's side.

There's the taste of whiskey on Lindsey's lip, and it's kind of sweet and warm. Tastes better than whiskey alone does, so Gunn goes back for more. Uses the hand on Lindsey's head to tip his head back, and his tongue is wide and lazy as it laps at Lindsey's lower lip. He wonders if he can get drunk on that taste, and then he stops thinking, because Lindsey's tongue eases out of his mouth and catches Gunn's.

And it's all relaxed and so damn slow that it makes Gunn feel heavy and weighed down. Their mouths widen and their tongues are moving against each other in long, slow strokes and Gunn's been half hard since he was staring at Lindsey across the room, and now his cock is hard and throbbing.

He brings a hand to Lindsey's waist and pulls him that list inch in, and they both have to lift their heads to take a breath that's more like a gasp. Lindsey's panting, staring up at Gunn with glittering eyes, and there's not so much getting reflected back at Gunn anymore, and there's more of Lindsey there.

Gunn braces Lindsey with his hand, then rubs against him. And there's a height difference, but not so much that the effort is wasted. Oh, hell no, it's not wasted. Lindsey's hard, and it's a sliver of ecstatic pleasure, coming up against it.

It's like a shield falls away from Lindsey's eyes at the contact, and suddenly Gunn sees everything and he realizes that brown eyes absorb, but blue eyes *send*. He's getting everything from Lindsey. Getting the need and the desire. Getting everything raw, like it doesn't get softened on its way out.

And in the middle of it all is wariness. Like Lindsey's afraid something is going to happen right now. That everything's going to end in a way that kicks him in the head. Again. That rips him to little pieces. Again.

Gunn lowers his head and catches that blue gaze dead on, and his hands move with purpose so that his fingers can rest along side of Lindsey's neck while his thumbs brush against the corners of his mouth. And below the waist they're both pushing against each other, hips twisting in small, tight circles as they go.

He keeps his eyes steady, confident. Because, damn it, he ain't letting anything get in the way of this, and Lindsey's gotta know that or else he'll hold back. There can't be any holding back. There has to be all of Lindsey here. It's important, but Gunn can't remember why.

Gunn want to taste those whiskey lips again, but he doesn't want to look away from Lindsey. Instead, he slides his right hand forward and his thumb pulls at Lindsey's lips. His left hand travels down, along a strong back, down over a curved ass, then lower. Gunn sets his fingers right under that curve and presses in, and Lindsey's eyes roll back and his leg gives out just a little so that he has to brace himself on the other one.

"Oh, fuck," Lindsey moans, and the sound of a voice startles Gunn just a little before he decides that Lindsey really needs to say more. A lot more. Because that rough, husky voice makes Gunn's hips jerk forward, it's so damn hot to hear.

Lindsey's mouth draws his thumb in, sucking on it not so gently, which makes Gunn shiver and clench his hand tighter at the juncture where Lindsey's hip meets his ass, which makes Lindsey stumble forward in response and suck harder. And it all just flows, every sensation causing another one and bringing it all full circle. The cycle breaks when Lindsey starts working his tongue around Gunn's thumb, and then it doesn't matter that he wants to keep looking at Lindsey, because he's got to kiss him. Now.

It's not soft anymore. It's rough and demanding, but it still ain't awkward. Their tongues rub harder against each other, their mouths open wider, and their heads shift to change the angle, to let them in deeper. Gunn's clenching and relaxing his hand, and Lindsey's grabbing at Gunn's back, and their hips are grinding their cocks together--and it all feels so fucking good that Gunn thinks he just might come in his goddamn pants.

He drags his mouth free and Lindsey makes this sound. It's like a demand and a plea all rolled into one, and it almost has Gunn tossing him to the floor right then and there. But he just sucks in a huge lungful of air, tries to calm down before he loses it entirely and can't make it to the end. Leans his forehead against Lindsey's, and brings his hand to the small of the other man's back.

And maybe he can't remember what the reason for this is, but there is one. A reason why he's in Lindsey's apartment. A reason why Lindsey's got to be *here* completely. But right now it's not about any of that. It's not even just about how good Gunn's feeling. It's about Lindsey. About that wariness.

It doesn't have a place here, and it needs to go.

***

Lindsey's frustrated and grateful that Gunn pulled back. He didn't want to stop. Not ever. Felt like he could have just let go and let his whole world become Gunn, with those dark, intent eyes that made his breath catch, and the hands that made his legs almost go out from under him.

And that's also why he's grateful. Lindsey doesn't want someone to be his whole world, not even for a minute. He's done it before--recently--and all it does is take and take and take until he feels empty and dry inside, and it doesn't give anything back in return.

Gunn's forehead is cool against his, and Lindsey swallows and tries to remember that he barely knows this man. That there's nothing here but the physical. Then Gunn's head lifts and his hand comes up to Lindsey's face and just...strokes him. Just touches his forehead and his cheeks and his lips and chin. Even his goddamn nose. And his brown eyes follow the path of his hand, his mouth parted in a half-smile.

Lindsey blinks and he feels his brows draw together in a frown that Gunn's fingers instantly move to inspect. He doesn't know what's going on here. He doesn't know what Gunn's trying to take from him. Just as he's about to bring it back to what it should be, when he's about to curl his lip and grab the back of Gunn's neck to kiss him with lips and tongue and sharp teeth, Gunn speaks.

"You should see yourself, Linds," he breathes, shaking his head. "Damn. Looks like you're hanging on the edge. Makes your eyes get all dark."

His throat goes dry because something's happened to turn this on its head. To make it impossible for Lindsey to bring it back to anywhere. He swallows again then wets his lips because they've gotten all parched since he can't seem to close his mouth.

Gunn's eyes blaze, and his hips pitch forward. "Fuck, you're going to wind up killing me with that mouth alone, aren't you? That's fine, I'll just have to kill you back somehow."

This isn't what it was supposed to be, and that last part of what Gunn said has Lindsey jerking away. Standing on his own. Gunn's expression doesn't change. His lips stay curled slightly, and his eyes are still looking at Lindsey, like his hands are still touching Lindsey's face. Then they fall lower, and Lindsey knows that Gunn's looking at him. At all of him, all at once.

Lindsey's glaring at him now, and his cock is getting softer with each second. "What's your angle with all this shit, huh?"

"No angle," Gunn says, talking slowly and clearly. "I don't do angles. Got no use for 'em." He grins. "I'd say something about being a straight-shooter, but I don't pun, either."

Nothing in his eyes says anything different than his mouth does, and Lindsey stands there for long moments, blatantly scrutinizing Gunn. Turning around in his head what he's getting off Gunn right now, and what he's read in his file at Wolfram &amp; Hart. And Gunn just stands there patiently, waiting.

He strides to Gunn quickly, and his hand doesn't grab the back of Gunn's neck, it just urges the other man's head down. And his sharp teeth stay out of the way as Gunn's tongue enters his mouth and Lindsey pulls his lips back and sucks on it. There are hands in his hair, tugging at it and tangling in it, and Lindsey isn't soft anymore. Every time he sucks on Gunn's tongue there's a bolt of something white-hot that heads straight to his cock.

And it takes no time at all until they're right back where they were, and this time it's Lindsey that draws back so that they can pant and regroup. For all that Gunn's frame is thinner than Lindsey's, there's something solid there. A steadiness that has his head dropping onto Gunn's shoulder, his nose pressed against Gunn's neck. He takes a deep breath, trying to pull some of that solidity into himself. To scent it and taste it.

There's a light odor of soap, and around the edges the warm, still scent of Gunn--a gentle hint and tang of sweat and musk. Then he's exhaling, because Gunn's hands are on his back, running up and down his spine, and Lindsey feels a heavy shudder slide through him.

Gunn's head tilts so that his cheek is pressed against Lindsey's. "Oh, now this is interesting," he says a little smugly, his hands pressing harder as they go up and down and up again, moving out to cover more terrain.

The shudders come one right after another until Lindsey's shaking, and if he thought Gunn's hands were talented before, now there's not even a word for just how fucking fantastic they're making Lindsey feel. Gunn drags them roughly down again, and pushes at the small of Lindsey's back before moving up and untucking his shirt in the process. Then they're on his skin and Lindsey groans and arches back, shudders still wracking his entire fucking body.

"Guess it won't be hard to kill you back after all," Gunn breathes against Lindsey's ear.

"Damn. You weren't supposed to find out about that."

Gunn laughs. "Glad I did."

His hands keep moving and Lindsey finally has to reach up and push them away because it's too much to take, and Gunn's pleased little smirk vanishes when Lindsey's hand rubs his cock through his jeans.

"*This* is interesting," Lindsey murmurs, lifting his head and watching Gunn's eyes shut. Watching the way his face goes slack and he bites his lip when Lindsey puts pressure against the head of his cock. And Gunn makes the roughest noises at the back of his throat when Lindsey slides his palm down along his shaft, fingers touching his balls briefly before his palm slides up again.

It's great, and hot, and enough to set Lindsey on fire under his skin, but it's not enough because there are clothes blocking every damn inch of their skin and there's no bed in the living room, just a hard floor, and Lindsey's long past the days when it was thrilling to fuck on the floor.

"Come on," he says, taking his hand away. It takes a moment for Gunn to register that Lindsey's not stroking him anymore, and his hips tilt forward two more times before his eyes open.

"What?"

"There's a bed down the hall. It's soft. Not so hard on the joints as a floor."

Gunn's eyes clear. "Getting old, Lawyer Boy?"

Lindsey starts out of the living room. "Nothing to do with age, just comfort." He looks over his shoulder. "Just gonna stay there by yourself?"

At the door to his bedroom, Lindsey pauses. He's not too sure this is a good idea. Not the sex, because that's probably the best idea he's had all year. No, the bedroom. Darla's all over it. She's everywhere in that room and he doesn't want to be distracted by her, doesn't want that twistedness to touch the right now.

But then Gunn is pressed up against his back, his cock rubbing against Lindsey's ass, and his hand is snaking around front to feel Lindsey through his suit pants. And Lindsey isn't worrying about the ghosts in his bedroom because he's too busy trying to figure out how to lean back against Gunn and thrust forward into his hand at the same time. He has to give up deciding anything when Gunn nudges his head to the side and then starts licking at his neck. Broad, firm strokes along the side that make Lindsey's entire body tense and relax at the same time.

Gunn lifts his mouth from Lindsey's neck and his breath falls across Lindsey's ear as he asks, "You got another bedroom in this posh apartment, Linds?"

"Oh, god," Lindsey whispers, that voice sending shivers down his spine. He gestures vaguely to their left. "Over there..."

Gunn doesn't move away at all. His legs nudge against Lindsey's, and they're walking, legs pressed against each other, bodies still touching the whole way down. Gunn's cock still against his ass, Gunn's hand still moving on his cock all slow and steady. Gunn's mouth once again on Lindsey's neck. Oh, and now his other hand is in the game. Running up Lindsey's chest to find a nipple and dragging a blunt nail across it.

"Holy fuck, Gunn," Lindsey gasps, almost falling to the ground. But Gunn's got him, and his legs nudge Lindsey the last two steps to the door of the spare bedroom, and Lindsey fumbles with the doorknob and actually manages to open it.

There isn't a ghost to be seen in the room, but there's a bed and it's all that Lindsey can see.

***

Gunn doesn't think anything feels better than touching someone else, making them get all shaky and lost in good feelings. It's the shit. Like a drug. Makes his body tingle and his cock just throb. Gets him harder and more turned on than a blowjob, truthfully. He's actually come just from bringing someone else off. Back in the day, there wasn't much good around, if any. It ain't about control; it's about making someone else feel *good*. Better than good, even.

There's no question that he's driving Lindsey out of his mind. None at all. He's not just shaking in Gunn's arms, he's shuddering like he's got no control over any of his muscles. Writhing all over the place because Gunn's working him in a few places at once. It's like a drug, and Lindsey's so goddamn responsive that Gunn's higher than a kite right about now.

Oh, yeah, and he keeps thrusting back against Gunn, that sweet ass grinding against his cock. They stand just inside the doorway of the dark bedroom and Lindsey's throat is making all these choked noises, so Gunn eases off. Too much of a good thing is like torture. He turns Lindsey around and starts unbuttoning his shirt. When it parts down the center, Gunn sucks in a breath.

It's a crime, a downright crime, for that chest to be covered up. Because it's the finest looking chest Gunn has ever seen. He slides the shirt off of Lindsey's shoulders slowly, staring at the muscles and the soft looking skin. It's smooth and strong and he's got to touch it.

Lindsey apparently has other ideas. He's busy awkwardly tugging Gunn's shirt up, and there isn't much light in the room, but it seems like he's getting frustrated because he can't manage it easily with one hand. Hell, the boy's got the biggest boatload of issues Gunn's ever seen, and part of him wants to clear out before they start to matter to him.

"Hold up," Gunn says quietly, taking hold of Lindsey's wrist and moving it aside. "Need some light in here. Where's a lamp?"

"On the nightstand," Lindsey answers, his tone clipped.

Gunn walks around the bed and flicks on the light. It's perfect mood lighting. Not bright and harsh, not so dim that Lindsey's hidden in the shadows, though Gunn kind of wishes he was. Lindsey's staring at the floor, his body tilted to the side so that his right hand is hidden. His jaw is clenched and so is his left hand.

It's one thing after another, and he should really clear out, but instead he's going back to Lindsey. Runs his hand down Lindsey's right arm and follows when he tries to pull it away before Gunn gets to his prosthetic.

Gunn pulls Lindsey's hand in between them and raises an eyebrow. "How does this come off?"

Lindsey's looks up at him, his eyes blank, and Gunn watches him steadily. Finally, he reaches over with his other hand and unstraps it, the harsh tearing sound of Velcro crackling in the air. He tries to pull his wrist out of Gunn's grip to slip the prosthetic off, but Gunn brushes him aside and does it himself. Tosses the thing onto a chair in the corner of the room.

Lindsey looks relieved and anxious about the thing being off, and Gunn's done with letting the issues suck everything out of the room, out of *them*. They'll stay because they're part of what he wanted to see. Part of Lindsey. But they're not going to be running things anymore. Period. End of fucking story.

He pulls his shirt off and unbuttons his jeans, leaving the zipper up. Reaches out and pulls Lindsey to him and they both hiss a little at the flesh on flesh. Gunn cups the side of Lindsey's face, tilts it up and they do that kissing from the beginning. Slow and dry and building things up for the hundredth time since Gunn walked in the apartment. For the last time tonight.

Gunn brings his other hand to Lindsey's back, and this time Lindsey's the one who changes the kiss, whose tongue dives into Gunn's mouth all warm and still tasting just a little of whiskey. That back thing is already coming in handy, hell yeah. Easy as pie.

The bed is behind Lindsey, and Gunn opens his eyes so that he can steer them. Walk forward and make Lindsey walk backwards until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. The hand on Lindsey's face moves to his chest and flattens, then pushes him just a little, and Lindsey tips back, catching his weight on his hand at first and then lying on his back. Gunn crawls over him, lips still locked and tongues still swirling and twirling and--goddamn, it's got to be some kind of sin the way Lindsey can use his tongue, a *sin*--and they keep moving until Lindsey's head is resting kind of on a pillow.

Gunn sets a knee between Lindsey's leg, urges them apart, then sinks down. Lindsey thrusts up before Gunn's even touching him, and they bump into each other all solidly. Gunn's head snaps back and he thinks his eyes might be showing all white.

"Jesus, Linds," Gunn groans, gritting his teeth at the pleasure.

"Not fucking sorry," Lindsey mutters back, sighing when Gunn's finally settled against him, bracing himself above Lindsey. "Goddamn, Gunn..."

"Fuck, I know."

They're hard and they're pressed so damn tight against each other that any little movement is like every big movement rolled into one. Lindsey rocks his hips up, and Gunn's arms just about collapse. Gunn finds Lindsey's eyes with his own, locks on again, and rotates his hips and grinds down at the same time.

The sun explodes in Lindsey's eyes. They open real wide, and the pupils get all small and those yellow flecks are all in plain view. Issues? What issues? Ain't nothing here but Gunn and Lindsey now.

Gunn rolls to the side, pulling Lindsey over with him so that they're both laying on their sides. Lindsey's good arm is free, and he runs it along Gunn's chest, around his back, to his ass. It slides under the waistband of his jeans, under his boxers and follows the curve, forcing him closer and tighter against Lindsey's cock.

The only thought in Gunn's head is that the pants have to go. Have to. It's not negotiable. He reaches for Lindsey's fly at the same time that Lindsey's hand leaves his ass and reaches for his. And Gunn's tugging at a button while Lindsey's dragging his zipper down, and then Lindsey's leaning forward to lick at Gunn's collarbone.

Gunn's still struggling to get the damn button undone but Lindsey just had a zipper to deal with and it's already been pulled down, and his hand wraps around the base of Gunn's cock all strong and cool and Gunn gives up trying to figure out the complicated button on Lindsey's pants.

So Gunn's head falls forward and he he grabs Lindsey's shoulder instead, holds on as Lindsey's hand moves up, and it's dry but Lindsey knows what to do. Doesn't try to move his hand along Gunn's cock. Just moves up, then down, then up again. And his grip shifts higher and the palm of his hand is grazing the sensitive head of Gunn's cock on the down stroke.

"Oh, yeah, fuck yeah, oh god," Gunn grunts, thrusting against that hand.

His shoulders are curling in and he'd be twisted up in a fetal position from the sensations but there's no room to do that. He leans his head against Lindsey's shoulder and he wants to kiss that skin, lick it, but it's all he can do to breathe and he might be bruising Lindsey, he's holding his shoulder so tight.

Lindsey doesn't seem to mind. His mouth is still against Gunn's collarbone, his teeth just resting against skin, and his tongue making lazy patterns in time to his pumping fist. Then his grip shifts again and his palm is wet with pre-cum, and Gunn almost screams at the first full, smooth, tight stroke that goes from the very tip of his cock all the way down. And then all the way up again.

It's so fucking good that he can't stop pushing into it, can't stop saying all sorts of words that don't make sense next to each other. Lindsey tightens his hold and Gunn's moving constantly, moving fast, and Lindsey's hand is twisting a little now on the upstroke. Gunn's head thrashes back and Lindsey's hips are pushing against his thigh, and his mouth leaves Gunn's shoulder.

"You gonna come for me, Gunn?" he asks, and that fucking voice of his is almost enough to send Gunn over the edge. All rough and husky, skating along Gunn's nerves, reverberating in his chest like a thumping baseline.

"You gonna come for me?" he asks again, and Gunn knows the answer is, fuck yeah he's gonna come. But not right now, because this isn't how he wants it. He sees how he wants it clear as a bell in his head.

Gunn grabs Lindsey's wrist, pulls his hand away and tries to remember how to breathe.

***

Lindsey moves his hand, but Gunn doesn't let go of his wrist, and he's still holding on when Lindsey brings it to his mouth and licks the taste of Gunn from his palm. He thinks Gunn's eyes cross, but he's not sure because Gunn moves fast and his lips are on Lindsey's a second later.

And it's like Gunn's trying to taste Lindsey tasting Gunn. Or something that actually makes sense, which Lindsey can't really do at the moment because Gunn has pulled back from his mouth and his tongue is curling along the pad of Lindsey's thumb. And if Gunn tasting himself on Lindsey's hand isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen, then he'll trade in his truck for a pretentious black convertible and prance through the alleys of Los Angeles fighting vampires.

Gunn finally lets go of Lindsey's wrist and he pulls his jeans and boxers down, toes off his shoes, then kicks them aside. Lindsey kicks his own shoes off, then looks back at Gunn. He's long...long limbs and torso, all sleek and strong. Lindsey wants to keep looking, but Gunn's reaching for his pants.

Lindsey arches a brow. "Thank you can figure out how to work a button this time?"

"I was being *distracted*," Gunn reminds him, and he undoes the button on the first try. "Couldn't have remembered my own name right about then."

"Yeah? Sorry about that. Won't happen again."

Gunn looks up at him. "You're a little shit, you know that?"

Lindsey shrugs and smiles. "Heard it a time or two."

And the zipper is down and Gunn tugs Lindsey's pants and boxers down at the same time, flinging them somewhere on the other side of the room. Lindsey shifts his feet, toes his socks off because there's something horribly tacky about being naked except for socks. Gunn just leans down and yanks his off, and Lindsey doesn't see where they land. Doesn't care, either.

Gunn comes back up to Lindsey, settles on his side again, and there's this frozen moment where they just lay there, naked, facing each other. Lindsey's breath starts getting shallow, and Gunn's eyes get darker and deeper, and then Gunn's hand is on his hip, and the next moment they're flush against each other, nothing at all between them.

Lindsey's teeth snap together and his jaw clenches, and he lets out a hissed exhalation, because they're cocks are pressed together, rubbing against each other, and it feels so fucking good.

"Yeah," Gunn grunts. "Oh, yeah."

It's confused at first, both of them just shoving forward, and then they fall into a rhythm of thrusts that don't make them break contact at all, that presses their cocks against their abdomens and against each other.

Lindsey's head is getting filled with white noise that sounds like rushing blood and his vision is getting spotty. Gunn's mouth finds his again and their tongues naturally mimic what's going on below their wastes, and Gunn's hand slides down Lindsey's hip. Hooks behind his knee and draws Lindsey's leg to him so that it's draped over Gunn's hip. Pulls Lindsey in and they're even closer than before and he didn't think it was possible to get any closer, but they are. Closer and tighter and Lindsey thinks he might just lose his goddamn mind to this.

Air is a problem. Lindsey can't get enough and his mouth slides over Gunn's, shifting to the side so he can suck in a breath, and they're not kissing anymore, just trying to find air, just trying to breathe. Lindsey tightens his leg around Gunn's hip. Presses the heel of his foot against Gunn's ass to get him even closer, even though it's impossible now.

Gunn proves him wrong again. He takes hold of Lindsey's thigh, moves it up higher, then he raises his own leg, bends it at the knee and shifts towards Lindsey so that he's at an angle. Lindsey's leg convulses, clenches as hard as it can so that he doesn't lose this full on contact that's more than he thought it could be. More and harder and closer.

Lindsey opens his mouth, kisses Gunn again, and there's nothing controlled about it this time. It's some kind of chaotic mess that has the white noise in Lindsey's head exploding and spreading.

He feels Gunn's hand traveling back down his thigh, over his hip and down. And it's moving slowly, like Gunn's asking for permission, and Lindsey realizes that he's doing just that when his fingers drift down just a bit. Lindsey jerks, his movements getting uncontrolled. Yes, yes, fuck yes, yes. He's not sure if he actually says it, and if he does, he's not sure how Gunn understands because they're still kissing. But Gunn gets it anyway, and then there are fingers between their lips, and they're kissing each other through and around those two fingers.

There are words, a lot of words, but Lindsey doesn't know what he's saying, and Gunn's words stay in his head only a second before they get lost in the white noise and maybe he'd try to make them stay longer, but the fingers are leaving his mouth and are at his ass again.

Gunn pulls back, stares down at Lindsey and slips a finger in, and Lindsey forces himself to relax, bears down a little, and holy god, even Gunn's *fingers* are long and there's no way he's going to be even a little bit sane when this is over. Their hips are still rocking and grinding, and Gunn keeps his finger still for a few moments while he tries to catch the rhythm.

When Lindsey jerks forward to thrust his cock against Gunn's, the finger slides out, and when Lindsey shifts back, the finger slides in. There's no escape from the sensation, no safe harbor. It's there no matter where he goes and the white noise becomes visible, like snow on a television, and it takes over his field of vision when Gunn slips another finger in and then crooks them.

All he can do is move, back and forth, fast and frantic, his hand clawing at Gunn's back. Just move and move and move--

"--or I'll stop."

Stop. No. No. Lindsey forces the snow and noise away, blinks and tries to focus.

"Look at me, Linds. Look at me."

He's biting into Gunn's shoulder, and he doesn't remember when that happened. Let's go slowly and his head falls back. He's gasping and moving and Gunn's staring at him.

"You want another?" Gunn asks, and Lindsey starts shaking. Shaking and moving and yes, he wants another. He hears himself say it this time, hears the way his voice is faint because even though he keeps sucking in air, he still feels like he's not breathing.

"Easy," Gunn says softly. "Try to hold still for me."

Still. No. He can't do still. He can't. There's too much to feel, there's too much in front of him and behind him and he's got to keep moving because he's got to feel it. Somehow Gunn manages. Manages to work a third finger in, and it's tight, and that one wasn't at their mouths, and Lindsey hasn't messed around with another guy in two years, and he's full. Just full.

He can't move as fast, but...but that's fine, because he's full and when he moves slower then Gunn's fingers stay pressed against his prostate longer, and his cock rubs against Gunn's a little bit more.

His breaths are deeper now, and Gunn's wrangled his other arm free and Lindsey lifts his head so that it can move under his neck. Gunn never looks away from Lindsey's eyes, and Lindsey finds he can't look anywhere else either. And he's so full and so fucking close that he's shaking again. Fine deep tremors that ripple down him. So. Damn. Close.

Gunn changes the angle of the arm that Lindsey's head is resting on so that he can bend it at the elbow. His hand presses at the center of Lindsey's back and then it *moves*, hard and slow, just like everything else. Goes right up the center of Lindsey's back.

"You're gonna come for me, Linds," Gunn says, his voice deep and tense.

"Yes, yes, yes," Lindsey mumbles. How the fuck could he not? Gunn's pumping his fingers in and out of Lindsey's ass, and he's *touching* Lindsey's back, and he's twisting his hips in tight little circles, and Lindsey's going to fucking explode any minute now.

It's building slow and steady and full, and Lindsey's just riding it. Waiting for it to happen. Then Gunn changes everything. Doesn't let Lindsey shift back after he thrusts forward. Pushes his fingers that much deeper in. Keeps Lindsey still with the hand on his back. But Gunn's hips, they keep moving. He keeps rubbing his cock against Lindsey's, and his fingers are right in that perfect spot, and Lindsey snaps.

Slams his hips backwards and forwards, and Gunn's not moving his fingers out, just letting Lindsey leave and then pushing hard and deep when he comes back.

Gunn's lips pull back from his teeth. "Yeah, that's it, Linds."

The faintest thought tries to make its way in. Something about the fact that he hates being called Linds. Doesn't let anyone do it. Refuses to answer to it. But it's gone before it ever really gets there.

"Come for me, Linds. Come."

And he's so close, so close, everything's pulling together somewhere at his center. It's dense and taut and it wraps around itself over and over again, getting denser and smaller, and then Gunn's hand drags up Lindsey's back, pressed against it so hard and tight that Lindsey's skin burns with the friction.

The last bit of everything wraps around itself and his balls get tight, and then it all lets go, and Lindsey shoves against Gunn's cock and comes and comes, and it keeps crashing over him even when he's done, because Gunn hasn't stopped anything.

He's still thrusting his hips and his fingers, but it's frenzied now, like he's been holding back all this time. Gunn's cock keeps grinding against his, and every time it brushes against the head, Lindsey convulses and twitches, and it has to end because it's too much and it's about to stop feeling good, but the hand on his back moves to his hair, holding tight, and Lindsey's going insane. Gunn won't look away, won't let him look away. Just keeps thrusting into and against Lindsey, pressing harder to get friction, and Lindsey separates from his skin.

His eyes get wide and he thinks they probably look wild and crazed, and Gunn just tenses up, like everything is coiling in him, and he pushes himself once, twice more and then he freezes. His back arches and his mouth opens, and for a split second there's utter stillness, and then his face draws in, and he's coming all over Lindsey's stomach, and he's making a choked scream at the back of his throat that comes out deep and primal. His muscles are straining and cording at his neck, and his head is thrown back. Lindsey doesn't want to blink because he doesn't want to miss it.

He watches Gunn's muscles all let go at once, sees him collapse without collapsing, looks at the frantic rise and fall of his chest. Gunn's fingers slide out of him and Lindsey's leg falls to the bed, landing awkwardly, and he wants to move it, but he can't. He can't move anything. Can only lie there and watch Gunn's hand come to his face to brush against his brow.

"Saw you," Gunn tells him.


	3. The Thin Red Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsey returns the favor and gives Gunn a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://rubywisp.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubywisp**](http://rubywisp.livejournal.com/), because her post about writing to the beat of your own drummer was rather timely in reaffirming something I was losing sight of. Thanks to [](http://arsenicjade.livejournal.com/profile)[**arsenicjade**](http://arsenicjade.livejournal.com/) because when I told her this badboy was killing me, she said I would rise from the dust and reclaim it.

Gunn's too tired to even think right about now. His last bit of thinking drove off in the cab he hailed for Cordy a few minutes ago. He knows he should probably be doing something productive, like hailing a cab for himself, but damn if it doesn't seems like too much effort. About all he can do is stand on the street, just a few feet from the hospital entrance, and stare blearily at the red line painted on the curb.

He hears a car slowing down, but he's fixated on that slash of red. And since his thinking is offline, he's definitely not thinking about other red stuff that maybe spilled out of a nasty gunshot wound that someone he knows took last night. No, not thinking about that at all. Just seeing it. Constantly. Eyes open, or closed.

A set of tires comes into view, lining up perfectly with the curb.

"Gunn."

He blinks slowly, shaking his head a bit and then lifting his gaze. He considers walking back into the hospital, because he's obviously hallucinating. There's no way that Lindsey's in front of him, at the wheel of a classic truck that Gunn would be envious of if his mind was working right. Just...no.

"If I get ticketed while I'm waiting for you to snap your jaw shut and acknowledge me," Lindsey says, "you're paying it. Get in."

And, yeah, that's Lindsey. In a truck.

Gunn shakes his head again then walks around the truck and gets in on the passenger side. Lindsey pulls away from the curb, and Gunn looks back to watch the red line disappear.

When it's out of sight, he looks at Lindsey tiredly. Lindsey's suit jacket is off, his tie is unknotted and hanging loose around his neck, and his sleeves are rolled up. It's casual time. "What are you doing here?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Heard about what happened," he says quietly.

Gunn raises his brows. "Heard about--oh. Yeah. Guess your bosses haven't realized yet that Angel ain't coming back. No need to keep an eye on us anymore."

Lindsey slants him a look and makes a sound at the back of his throat. "I'm not here because of them."

"Didn't say you were," Gunn mumbles. In fact, his thinking is so jacked up he's kind of kicking himself for _not_ thinking that first and foremost. "But since we're on the subject, maybe you could say some more to make me believe it."

"You gave me a ride that first night. Just thought I could return the favor."

And Lindsey's voice is so quiet that Gunn almost misses it. That's what gives away the fact that Lindsey's spouting off the truth. Casual honestly? Yeah, Lindsey delivers that all smooth and lawyerly. Bullshit? Same way. But real truth? It always comes out so soft, like Lindsey hopes it'll evaporate like smoke before it reaches someone.

Darla's done a job on him. Is _still_ doing a job on him. When Gunn's alone with Lindsey he barely sees any of the arrogant bastard that he heard so much about. Instead, there's just a guy who the term "gun shy" doesn't even begin to describe. It's like Lindsey just stripped himself down for Darla. Opened himself up to anything she had to offer, and got all sorts of shit that he wasn't expecting--none of it good.

And now he's stuck. Can't just cover himself back up because it ain't that easy. Darla fucks with Lindsey's head, and Lindsey lets her. Darla backs down, and Lindsey thinks it'll be what he wants this time. But it never is. Never will be.

Gunn figures Lindsey will be a blind fool about Darla until the day he dies. That's how things go.

He and Lindsey? Who the hell knows where things will go with that. Gunn only knows where they are. Or, where they're _supposed_ to be. There's a lot that's hazy on that subject. Hell. Everything's hazy.

They're not friends. Not really. They're something else that's a whole lot of nothing and a whole lot of something at the same time. Their lives should follow separate paths, and just kind of touch each other when they're together.

They shouldn't intersect when there isn't really a reason to. Lindsey shouldn't have come to the hospital. Gunn shouldn't have gotten in the truck.

But, the thing about him and Lindsey? It ain't ever been clear and simple. Not even that first night, because Gunn wasn't just thinking about himself then, like he should've been. He was thinking about Lindsey. Maybe even thinking about Lindsey more than himself.

It's the latest complicated thing in Gunn's life, but he thinks it might actually be the simplest thing when he takes a step back and looks at everything as a whole.

Gunn leans his head back against the seat and rubs his forehead. "Returning the ride. I can deal with that."

It's a damn shame that his life has come to this fucked up standard of normal lately, but there ain't a damn thing he can do about it.

"Where do you want to go?" Lindsey asks him.

"Doesn't matter. Gotta be back at two for visiting hours, so you might as well just drive. Kill some time."

Lindsey nods, turns right, and comes to a stop at a red light. "You all right?"

Gunn doesn't think there's an answer to that question. There might have been, over a dozen hours ago, but now there isn't.

"Don't know," he says. "Think that means something?"

"Means you've had a lot of shit to deal with," Lindsey says tightly.

Gunn shrugs and lets his head fall to the side so that he can watch Lindsey drive. A truck like this needs a two-handed driver, but Lindsey...Lindsey manages it just damn fine. Careful crossing of left hand to the gearshift. Plastic hand keeping the wheel steady for gear changes. Real hand taking over for lane changes, turns and a sudden swerve when the asshole in front of them just _stops_ in the middle of the street for no good reason.

Lindsey pulls into a parking lot, then turns into the lane for a fast food drive-thru.

"What do you want?" he asks Gunn.

Nasty gut shot, blood that kept coming, and the cold, cold, coldness of Wesley. Gunn swallows. "Nothing."

Lindsey looks at Gunn's hands, which are trembling where they rest on his knees. "It'll just make things worse if you pass out when you go back there."

And he's right. Cordy's keeping up a brave front, being steady and cool, but Gunn figures she's probably a shaking, sobbing mess at home right now. She don't need to start worrying about Gunn, too.

He gestures at the menu. "Whatever."

Lindsey orders him a burger and fries, and Gunn silently thanks him when he asks for no ketchup anywhere on anything. They crawl from the order speaker to the window, then Lindsey steers the car into a parking spot. Digs through the bag and hands off a plain burger and some fries to Gunn, settles back with some kind of chicken sandwich.

The food is dry and tasteless, and Gunn has to stop eating three times because he thinks he might throw up. But Lindsey talks to him, tells him about the truck, and the nausea passes and Gunn finishes his burger and half the fries.

Gunn yawns as the truck starts again, and Lindsey tosses him a look. "Want me to drop you at home so you can get some sleep?"

He doesn't want to sleep. He's fucking afraid to sleep because he doesn't think his dreams will be about anything except Wesley and blood. At least when he's awake he can distract himself. Ignore the pictures in his head a little. Asleep? There'd be no ignoring them.

"Just...drive. Okay?"

Lindsey stares at him, something in his eyes that Gunn ain't used to seeing there. "All right."

***

Lindsey can't take the blank look on Gunn's face. It makes him want to slam his foot down on the gas and barrel through the city to that damn hotel and have a go at Angel. That wouldn't do much of anything for Gunn, though, so Lindsey settles on slamming his foot down on the gas and barreling out of the city entirely.

Driving fast is better than wondering what the fuck he's doing or why the hell he gives a shit about the look on Gunn's face at all.

Takes them on the freeway for a little bit, steers the truck to a scenic rest stop and they sit in silence, neither of them seeing the view. Cuts his eyes in Gunn's direction every so often, and his fist clenches when he sees Gunn's hands shake.

Lindsey wants to _do_ something about that. Not make it better, because he knows that things like this can't be made better. But he wants to take Gunn away from it for a second-minute-hour-day-week. Send it out of Gunn's head for as long as he can manage. Give the man a fucking bit of peace.

Because it's hard to come by for normal people, almost impossible for people like them. Lindsey's own life only comes into contact with that state on the nights he's with Gunn, and maybe that's why there've been so many of those nights in such a short period of time.

On those nights, Gunn captures his eyes, won't let him look away, and Lindsey can't think about all the shit in his head, just about him and Gunn. And everything is so goddamn intense that it empties Lindsey entirely, and afterwards he can only lay there like something leaden and struggle to stay awake.

Lindsey knows that Gunn gets something out of this too, but it's not what he's giving Lindsey. Right now, Gunn needs some of that.

And Lindsey? He needs to actually give something and have it taken. He gives and gives to Darla, but it's not what she wants or needs. That's all tied up in Angel, and Lindsey's hope that she'll suddenly see and need him is fading more and more with each taunt, with each coolly arched brow, with each time she gives him her back on her way out the door.

He shifts, angles himself so that he's almost sitting sideways, then reaches out to cup the back of Gunn's neck and turn his head. Gunn blinks slowly, like he's in a stupor. Lindsey meets those eyes dead on, rubs his thumb along the spot behind Gunn's ear that makes him shiver.

Gunn jerks his head away, his eyes glittering. "Not the time to be messing around, Linds. I mean it."

Lindsey takes hold of his chin, brings his head around again. "It's not about messing around," he says softly.

He leans forward, presses his lips against Gunn's, and for a long moment it's completely one sided. But then Gunn's mouth opens and it's like they're in the eye of a hurricane all of a sudden. The wind carrying trees and cars and fucking houses in chaotic patterns of flight just a few feet away while they sit in stillness.

Gunn kisses him like he's throwing everything he has into the moment and Lindsey squeezes his eyes tightly in relief, but opens them when Gunn starts to lean him back. Gunn's eyes are already dazed, already clouded with what's to come, and that look almost makes Lindsey lose himself, too.

He flicks his tongue out, traces the outline of Gunn's lips, and Gunn sucks in a shuddering breath. Lindsey opens his eyes, does it again while staring at Gunn's lids. It's like Gunn can feel Lindsey staring, which Lindsey was counting on. He sees those brown eyes come into view and he doesn't look away when he flicks his tongue inside. Runs when Gunn's tongue tries to follow. Leads him outside his mouth.

Lindsey can _feel_ the tension in Gunn so he slides hand to the side of Gunn's neck and rubs, hard and sure, his eyes still locked with Gunn's, their tongues still twirling and spinning out in the open.

Flinging yourself into the moment has its benefits. But doing it too fast makes it pass before it really even happens. Take it down a notch? Keep that moment but put the flinging on slow-motion? Keeps everything intense. Makes it last longer.

Lindsey captures Gunn's tongue with his lips, sucks long and slow, then lets it slide out. His lips brush against Gunn's jaw, his chin, then down along his neck. Gunn tastes like strength. Resolve. Purpose. It's addictive. Lindsey can't draw his mouth away from it, can't stop tasting it, grazing his teeth along it, rubbing it into his gums.

Gunn is shuddering and one of his hands is in Lindsey's hair, the grip only a little tight as he steers Lindsey to the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

They've had a lot of nights together in apartments, motels, hotels and--once--an alley. They've learned secrets and spots and kinks; they've learned when to go with them, when to avoid them.

Lindsey opens his mouth and bites down. It's not gentle. It's not a nip. It's blunt teeth set deep and hard in muscle, and usually neck biting is a thing that doesn't get done. By either of them. Comes with the territory, the hesitancy to let anyone's teeth near your neck.

So does the dark side of that coin. The need to have someone's teeth near your neck. To understand the draw. To touch what it was that took away someone you cared about.

Gunn convulses when Lindsey bites, then curls forward. Curls into Lindsey's teeth, against Lindsey's chest, and his hand is clenched around Lindsey's arm and shaking with how hard he's grabbing.

Lindsey is shaking, too. That dark side of the coin...it also works the other way around. Brings a rushing, dizzying sense of pleasure to have flesh between teeth, to bite until your jaw is almost popping.

There's a noise from Gunn, an indecipherable, guttural sound that breaks through the crazed buzzing in Lindsey's head and has him easing away. Gunn tries to push his head back, but Lindsey ducks away, swiping his tongue against the grooves in Gunn's neck before kissing his mouth again.

Lindsey knows from experience that Gunn's neck is going to ache later. He's going to feel that bite when he turns, when he nods, when he leans his head back. If he forgets and cradles a phone receiver between his ear and shoulder, he'll cause a flare of dull pain that will spiral to every other point on his body.

Gunn will _feel_ him long after Lindsey drops him off back at the hospital, and Lindsey is hard as hell at the thought.

It's a heady rush of power, being able to make someone feel long after it's all been said and done. But that's not what makes Lindsey hard. He's thinking about Gunn remembering the moment, getting a small nano-second of peace long after Lindsey's back at Wolfram &amp; Hart and Gunn's back at the hospital with his family.

And _that_ isn't power, it's...something else that Lindsey doesn't have the capacity to name right now, because they're both in the moment.

"God, Linds. Fuck," Gunn mutters, his mouth falling away from Lindsey's. "Fuck."

His forehead is pressed against Lindsey's shoulder and he's twitching a little. Slight jerks that Lindsey imagines start in the middle of his body and roll up and down simultaneously.

Lindsey shifts to the edge of the seat, sets his hand on the inside of Gunn's left thigh and pulls the leg up so that it's up on the bench seat, Gunn's foot resting against the driver's door. Tugs awkwardly until Gunn reclines as much as he can.

And he looks in Gunn's eyes again and Gunn sucks in a shaky breath. Lindsey removes his prosthetic, and he's done it so often now that he doesn't have to look away from Gunn. Tosses it up on the dash and then works at the buttons on his shirt. Gunn watches him expectantly, only looking way for as long as it takes for him to pull his own shirt over his head and drop it on the floor.

Lindsey shrugs his shirt off, makes sure the tie goes with it, then kneels on one knee in the vee of Gunn's legs and braces himself on the backseat so that he can look down at Gunn.

Gunn's eyes get dark and smoky, and his hands come up to Lindsey's chest. Gunn has long, elegant fingers, more suited to pianos than stakes, in Lindsey's opinion. They whisper along Lindsey's skin, making him arch his back instinctively to get more friction, more pressure.

Last week, Gunn spent an hour just touching Lindsey's chest and after forty minutes, Lindsey was sure they'd both come just from that constant touching and constant staring.

Gunn pushes himself up, brings his lips close to Lindsey's ears. "_Need_ you, Linds. So fucking bad." He lifts his right leg, shoves at Lindsey's knee with his foot so that Lindsey just falls on him, and they both groan. "Need _you_."

Not want. Need. Not making do. Fucking need. Gunn needs every little goddamn thing Lindsey has to offer, even if it's only right here and right now. It strips Lindsey. Takes away every layer of learned behavior and reduces him to something raw and true and base.

He grinds himself hard and desperate against Gunn, and his lips pull back from his teeth. He thinks that maybe he shouldn't be going with this, because he wanted to do something for Gunn, wanted to lean him back and suck him off until he came. Lick him clean and put him away, then maybe let him rest.

But it's impossible to resist. Need. Need. Need. Can't be resisted.

There's a hand in his hair and it's not gentle. It's hard and rough and it yanks Lindsey's head back. He keeps his eyes on Gunn, sees the same stripping away happening.

"We're not doing this here," Gunn says, his jaw is so set that the words are almost ground into powder before they make their way to Lindsey.

Lindsey blinks. Not doing this? Oh. Here. He looks around, taking in the cramped confines of the cab of his truck. He hasn't fucked in a car since he was twenty. Considering that his shoulder is already aching from holding himself up at such a strange angle, he's not all that interested in doing it again.

"Think we passed a hotel," he says, sitting up.

"You gonna give me what I need, Linds?" Gunn asks, reaching up to touch Lindsey's lips.

"Depends on what you need," Lindsey tells him, reaching for the prosthetic.

It's not a rebellion, it's a challenge, and Gunn knows it because Gunn is right where Lindsey is right now. They're not Gunn and Lindsey, not men, not people. They're the instincts at the back of their necks given full reign.

And Lindsey doesn't want to think of Darla right now, but he does. Because he's like this with Darla--a desperate attempt to bring her out from behind her impenetrable walls--but she's never there with him. She's always off some place else even if her body is there.

This is different. Gunn's out here with him, away from all things safe and civilized.

Gunn twists around, shoves Lindsey back against the seat and reaches down to take hold of Lindsey's cock, pumping it. Lindsey groans, his good hand clenching around the prosthetic he's holding.

"Drive us to that motel," Gunn says roughly. "Can you do that?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lindsey growls, his hips rolling up and pushing his cock into Gunn's hand. Drive the truck? Gunn's lost his goddamn mind. Lindsey can't even fucking _see straight_ right now. Shakes his head no, and Gunn pumps him harder.

"I need you to drive us to that motel. Can you do that for me?"

And it's not the same demand, or the same question. Not even a little.

"_Fuck_. Yeah, I can do that."

Gunn pulls away and Lindsey takes a breath. Leans his forehead against the steering wheel and tries to find some kind of temporary sanity to cling to for as long it takes to find a motel. It'd be a lot easier if he actually fucking wanted to be sane, even temporarily.

Then Gunn's hand is at his back, and it's moot because there's no way sanity is even coming within a mile of him when Gunn's touching his back. Gunn's mouth is suddenly at the center of his back, and Lindsey wants to fucking cry at how good it feels, and sanity is pushed a continent away.

"Change my mind," Gunn says against his back. "Switch places with me."

They change places, and Lindsey almost falls under the dash because Gunn won't stop touching his back. Gunn makes him sit sideways, leaning against the passenger door, and Lindsey takes a shuddering breath at the weight in Gunn's eyes as they take him in. Lindsey grins, wild and feral, and licks his lips slowly.

"Hell," Gunn grits out, his eyes flickering. "You'll pay for that. Sit right," he adds, and starts the truck. Lindsey smirks when he sees Gunn's hands shaking as he pulls out of the rest area.

It takes ten minutes for them to get to the motel, Lindsey directing Gunn, and in that time everything slips further and further away from Lindsey. Gunn is a coiled rope of muscles beside him and he's driving just fine, but Lindsey knows--he just fucking knows--that Gunn's falling in just as deep.

Gunn jerks his shirt on and slams the door of the truck when he goes to check them in, and again when he comes back. Drives them around the side of the small building and Lindsey is half afraid he broke the damn gearshift when he shoved it into park.

Lindsey fumbles for his briefcase, which is only in the truck because he thought he might actually make it into the office in the afternoon, which he knows won't happen now. Brings it and his shirt with him into the room and drops both when Gunn slams him against a wall and rubs against him.

He touches Lindsey's lips with a finger that's trembling with the effort it's taking to stay in control. The little bit of Gunn that returned on the drive recedes and Lindsey lets the small, tiny bit of himself that returned do the same.

Gunn kisses him and it's sharp, bruising, and it's so fucking predictable and psychiatrically pat how they keep leading with teeth. Lindsey wants to laugh hysterically about that, but he can't because it's not really funny.

He pulls at the hem of Gunn's shirt, lifting it up a little, sliding his grip on the material to the side, lifting it up more. Does that until he can't lift it anymore, and Gunn pulls away to strip the shirt off and toss it across the room.

He turns back slowly. He's towering above Lindsey like something dark and terrible, and there's a flash of white teeth. Brings his hands to Lindsey's pants and undoes the belt, unhooks the button, pulls down the zipper with swift movements.

Does the same with his jeans, then steps away. They stare at each other and then Gunn toes off his shoes, his socks, and Lindsey's world narrows down to Gunn's eyes, and the movements in his periphery vision that he mimics. Their pants and underwear go next, and Lindsey moves forward, because he needs to be pressed against Gunn, but Gunn has other ideas.

Gunn hooks a hand around his waist, drags him away from the wall, shoves him back on the bed. Lindsey does laugh then, a wild sound that's not about laughter, but about something else entirely.

The laughter cuts off when Gunn comes crashing down on him, and then Lindsey isn't capable of any sound at all, because there's skin. Gunn's skin. His skin. Gunn's skin pressed against his skin. Pressed everywhere except where Lindsey really needs it pressed.

Gunn is holding his hips up, not bringing their cocks into contact, and Lindsey sucks in a breath of air that feels too heavy and humid and wonders if sanity is ever on the goddamn planet when he's around Gunn.

They didn't turn a light on, and the curtains at the window are closed. The air conditioning is on low, and the room is cool and dark but Lindsey's sweating. Stares up at Gunn and realizes that sanity is never even in the fucking _galaxy_ when he's with Gunn.

Gunn kisses him, just a brushing of lips, and he doesn't let Lindsey deepen it. Pulls back, over and over, when Lindsey tries, until he's so caught up in trying to reach Gunn's tongue with his own that he's forgotten all about how Gunn's holding himself.

Lindsey's head falls back, his neck arching along with his back, when Gunn lowers himself fully.

"Linds," Gunn groans, rubbing against Lindsey. "Goddamn."

Lowers his head, tongues the shell of Lindsey's ear and causes a wave of shudders to ripple over every inch of Lindsey's skin. His mouth moves down to Lindsey's neck, licking just the way Lindsey likes it--hard, long strokes that make his hips jerk up, again and again, and Gunn's cock is hot and heavy and hard against him, and Lindsey is choking for air.

Sometimes he wonders if one day he'll choke for air so long that he'll skyrocket out of his own body. Look down from the ceiling for one long moment while he's still holding the shape of himself, then lose even that semblance of form and get eaten up by the air. He thinks it can happen. Thinks it could get so intense that he'll just scatter.

Gunn drags his mouth to the front of Lindsey's neck and his tongue is twirling in that spot right above the center of Lindsey's collarbone.

"Let you at my neck," Gunn breathes against his skin. "At my _neck_."

Lindsey's breath hitches and he bends his legs at the knees, brings one up and around Gunn's waist.

Gunn's mouth travels up, his lips bracketing Lindsey's chin, teeth settling in just above and below so very gently before he's back at Lindsey's mouth, eyes open and glittering. Levers himself up on the palms of his hands, and his arms are so fucking long that he seems like he's a mile above Lindsey. His eyes are pinned on Lindsey's face as he grinds against him, teeth clenched.

"So fucking hot, Linds. This what you wanted? This what you were after in the truck?" he asks, pressing hard and long against Lindsey's cock for emphasis.

Lindsey raises his hips and groans. Reaches for the back of Gunn's neck and brings his head down until their faces are only inches apart. Grins wildly. "I was looking to blow you."

Gunn's eyes roll back in his head. "Son of a bitch."

Secrets. Spots. Kinks. Gunn's got a few of each.

"Figured I'd push you back," Lindsey goes on. "Suck your cock right in the middle of that rest stop until you came." Pulls away and licks his lips. "But this is good, too."

Just like that, Gunn rolls them until Lindsey's on top. He stays there long enough to let Gunn's hands run across his chest, play with his nipples, then slides to the side. Gunn moves down to the edge of the bed, leans back to brace himself on his hands, and Lindsey gets on the floor in front of him.

He could do it from the bed, but it's too hard to manage with the one hand. Can't support himself and hold Gunn's cock at the same time. This way is easier, and Lindsey thinks that he wouldn't be able to do it this way with someone else. Be on his knees like this.

Slides his hand along Gunn's thigh, stares up into eyes that seem as dark as obsidian in the dim room and brings his mouth close to the tip of Gunn's cock so that his breath blows against it.

Gunn's threads his fingers through Lindsey's hair and cups the side of his neck. "Yeah, Linds. Let me feel that mouth."

Flicks out his tongue and tastes the pre-come. Gunn bites his lip and grunts. "Oh, yeah. Yeah."

Lindsey tongues the head of his cock and Gunn groans loudly, his fingers caressing Lindsey's scalp. His eyes flare when Lindsey pulls back and lets him slide out. The hands in his hair tighten a little, then relax.

Lindsey wraps his fingers around the base of Gunn's cock, stares up at him as he pumps it twice, three times. One hand leaves Lindsey's hair, long fingers tracing his lips. Two slide in and Lindsey closes his mouth around them, twines his tongue around them. Gunn's pushes himself into Lindsey's hand.

"Don't tease," he says, his voice thick, and he takes his fingers away.

"No teasing," Lindsey breathes, and he doesn't look away from Gunn's eyes as he lowers his mouth. Takes the head of Gunn's cock in his mouth and Gunn is already panting.

Lindsey sucks on it, slides his mouth down as far as he can go, pumps his hand up with a twisting motion that makes Gunn almost scream.

Gunn talks while Lindsey sucks him. A constant stream of hissed and grunted phrases, sometimes just words, only very rarely entire sentences.

"...fuck, yeah...oh, yeah, yeah, that's it...god, you're so good..."

And he doesn't stop. Tells Lindsey in jerky, half-sentences what he looks like down on his knees. Says that he gets hard just thinking about it when they're not together. It goes on and fucking on and Lindsey finally has to pull his mouth away so that he can suck in large gulps of breath.

Listening to Gunn talk during sex is like getting buzzed on tequila: rough and gritty going down, then a burning heat spreading across the skin, a settling fog that's dizzying. He leans his head against Gunn's knee and tries to regain some kind of...not sanity, but here-ness, so that he can continue.

Gunn's got other ideas, though. He urges Lindsey's head up and tugs him back on the bed. Lindsey feels the dizziness get worse, in a good way, when Gunn automatically settles Lindsey to the right of him so that the good hand is free. There's no thought to it, Gunn just does it.

Lindsey will never get used to the missing hand; there are comments from Lilah, looks from strangers, and a guitar in his closet that all cause him to _remember_. And there are suggestions from Darla that he doesn't really want to think about right now.

But Gunn's making him forget. He homes in on Lindsey's chest like nothing else exists, and Lindsey tries. He does. He tries not to move so that those long, strong fingers aren't brushing over his back, but he can't. Gunn smiles knowingly at him as he twists his torso just a little, dips down to kiss his lips, then gives him what he wants.

Secrets. Spots. Kinks.

Lindsey is a shuddering mess of a man in less than thirty seconds. Gunn turns him on his stomach, perches on his thighs, and those hands cover every inch of Lindsey's back. Light fluttering touches, deep rubbing, and the scratching of blunt nails. No discernable pattern. Nothing for Lindsey to anticipate and expect. Just random touches, each one better than the last.

Then Gunn leans forward, and it's hands and nails, and _lips and tongue_, all following each other up Lindsey's spine. Lindsey arches into it, curls away from it, rubbing his cock against the bedspread and feeling Gunn's slip between his cheeks, hips thrusting as he fucks the groove.

Gunn leans forward, chest pressed against Lindsey's back, and his mouth is at Lindsey's ear. Lindsey notices the stillness. The absolute lack of any kind of movement from Gunn and he makes a questioning noise.

"Linds..." Gunn jerks his hips forward, his cock still rubbing Lindsey. Just once, but it's enough.

Turns his head to the side and finds Gunn's face right there, eyes questioning, pleading, demanding. It's been years since Lindsey was fucked. Years. And then, it was only once. A drunken disaster during college that he remembers mostly for the pain the next day. He didn't give Gunn any of the details, just stated his boundaries without explanation.

This is the first time Gunn's ever brought it up. That, combined with the desperate look in Gunn's eyes makes Lindsey nod his head.

Gunn moves off of Lindsey and turns him on his back, and then Gunn's mouth comes crashing down on his, and there are words between kisses. "It'll feel so good...I'll make it so good for you."

And Lindsey doesn't doubt that, because it's Gunn. It'll be damn good, having Gunn in him. Gunn's mouth leaves his, moves down to his chest. Licks and scrapes his teeth against Lindsey's nipples.

Shifts back on his calves, angled forward so their cocks line up. Wraps his hand around both of them and slides it up and down.

"You want me to fuck you, Linds?"

Lindsey groans, jerks his hips up. "Yes," he says, teeth clenched. "Fuck, yes."

Gunn smiles, his hand moving away from their cocks, and Lindsey makes a noise that's almost a growl, and it trails off into a moan when Gunn's hand simply moves lower. Gunn slides one long finger, slick with their pre-come, into Lindsey.

His legs fall to the side and his back arches. Gunn slides another finger in, fucking him slow and easy, and Lindsey needs more. More fingers, harder. Gunn holds his hand still when Lindsey's hips start moving on his fingers.

"I could do this all day. Watch you fuck yourself. Hottest thing I've ever seen."

"Goddamn it, Gunn," Lindsey cries out wildly, hips slamming up and down on those fingers.

Gunn sets a large hand on Lindsey's hip, forces him to slow down his thrusting by small increments until he's just lying there, Gunn's fingers in him, gasping for breath.

"Easy," Gunn whispers, pressing soft, dry kisses on Lindsey's shaking thighs. "Calm down. That's it."

When Lindsey is as calm as he can get, Gunn removes his fingers. Runs his hands along Lindsey's thighs, strong and steady.

"You're going to kill me, Gunn."

Flash of white teeth. Another quick kiss to his thigh. "That a complaint?"

Lindsey shakes his head. "Just a statement."

Gunn's thumbs are rubbing tiny little circles on Lindsey's legs. "Bring that briefcase in for a reason, Linds?" he asks knowingly.

"Yeah, I thought I might get some work done. Is that a problem?"

A sharp slap to his leg, but it's playful. "Does that mean, 'yes, Gunn I have lube in there'?"

"In some demon language, maybe." He studies Gunn for a moment, sees the memories crowding in the dark eyes. "Bring it over."

Gunn moves quickly, and Lindsey doesn't think that all has to do with anticipation. Lindsey knows about movement, knows that it's a distraction, and Gunn needs it. The briefcase is tossed. It lands by Lindsey's hip, on his left side right by his good hand. Goddamn. God_damn_. How the fuck can Gunn be so damn...good, without being so damn _good_?

Lindsey shakes his head and thumbs in the combination for the lock on his briefcase. Flips it open and reaches into the pocket on the lid, feeling around for the small tube at the bottom. Gunn's over by their discarded clothing, picking up his pants and taking out his wallet.

No, they've never fucked. Done pretty much everything else, hence the lube. Gunn's got a condom because he's a guy; Lindsey's a guy, too, but he stopped carrying a condom after he brought Drusilla to town--and he's cutting off that line of thinking right now.

Gunn slinks back to the bed and Lindsey fumbles his briefcase shut before shoving it to the floor.

The kisses are frantic now, sloppy and messy and just about perfect in Lindsey's mind. Hands everywhere: chests, necks, hair, backs, cocks. Sliding and moving and cupping and pumping. Then full body contact again, and he sighs, just _sighs_ as Gunn settles on top of him.

More tequila from Gunn, offered to Lindsey as Gunn kisses down his chest to his cock. Lindsey pushes his head away before his mouth can make contact. He's going to get fucked. Gunn is going to fuck him. There is no way in hell he'll last thirty seconds if Gunn blows him. None at all.

Gunn urges him over, his mouth and tongue just suddenly _there_, and Lindsey bucks wildly. He's shaking and twitching and twisting and writhing--he's doing everything--all because of that tongue. Frantic jerks of his hips to get friction for his aching cock and it's all too fucking much. What's happening now, what's going to happen. It's too damn much and he wants to scream.

Maybe Gunn senses it, because his hands start stroking Lindsey. Rubbing his sides in a hard, soothing pattern, and Lindsey is glad the hands stay away from his back, that the touches are firm and not teasing, because the screaming would start and never end otherwise.

There's chaos in Lindsey's head right now. It's pleasure and need, want and have. It's nothing outside of this room mattering in this instant. If that first night with Gunn made Lindsey's world into a snow-smattered mess of white noise, this time turns it inside-out and upside down, makes everything Technicolor and warped until it's all just a caricature of itself. Until all that's real is Gunn, is Lindsey.

Gunn pulls away from Lindsey. There's a shifting of the mattress under him, and the clicking sound of the tube being flipped open. A long moment of nothing. No contact. No voice. Nothing. Before Lindsey starts to settle down again, Gunn is back, long slick fingers making their way into him with the ease of practice and knowledge.

Gunn drapes himself over Lindsey's back, his fingers thrusting and crooking in Lindsey, scissoring over and over again. Wet lips at the nape of his neck, tequila shooting past his skin and right into his bloodstream making him drunker than he's ever been.

And then the fingers slide out and the head of Gunn's cock is pressing against Lindsey, thick and rounder and fuller than what he's used to, and it's only Gunn's hands that keep him from jerking back faster than he should.

Lindsey wants to pay attention to it all. Memorize the words Gunn's saying, the path of his hands, the breaths against his neck, but he can't. There's only Gunn pressing forward, Lindsey bearing back, and then a sudden release of muscle that makes them both groan in a combination of pleasure and discomfort--he can't call it pain, because that's not really what it is, not when it's coming from Gunn--before they stop moving, muscles dancing under their skin.

"Linds?" Gunn asks, and his voice is full and stretched, just like Lindsey is.

Words tumble towards Lindsey's tongue but dissipate before he can say them. All he can do is groan and nod his head awkwardly against the pillow. It's enough for Gunn, and he starts moving.

It's slow and steady. So slow and steady that Lindsey is almost crawling out of his skin five strokes in. Gunn shushes him, literally shushes him. Keeps the pace where he wants it, and clamps his hands on Lindsey's hips to prevent him from thrusting back.

Everything is raw for Lindsey right now. There aren't any buffers, aren't any spins he can put on this. It's raw and true and he thinks that everything in his life is that much more of a lie now that this has been added into the equation.

Gunn changes his angle just the slightest, and then lies and truth fly out the window, because Lindsey can only _feel_. Feel Gunn in him, moving and hitting that spot more often than not. Feel Gunn's hands switch from restraining to soothing. Feel the friction of his cock against the bed, all that much _more_ now that Gunn's leaning harder against Lindsey. Feel Gunn filling him, Gunn being _in_ him, which is an entirely different thing than Lindsey being in someone else.

Whispers against his ear, dirty-sweet words that have Lindsey's hips lifting, that make his back arch against Gunn's chest, even though he's not really sure what Gunn is saying because it feels like Gunn's so deep in him that he takes up every bit of space Lindsey himself should be occupying. Takes his sight. Takes his hearing. Takes everything.

He _takes_. Takes what Lindsey is giving him. Takes it with those dirty-sweet words and soothing hands, and Lindsey's done. Grinds against the bed beneath him and finally screams, screams as he comes. Gunn makes a choked noise behind him, and his movements are harder and faster now, and it's only moments until he stills, some kind of guttural shout that's almost a war cry making its way to Lindsey's ears.

The shallow breath leaves Lindsey's lungs as Gunn collapses against him, trembling in aftershock, sweat dripping onto Lindsey's shoulders.

There's a significance here, but Lindsey can't be bothered to contemplate it. He just waits until Gunn rolls to the side and collects himself, then sets the cheap alarm clock on the nightstand.

When he turns around, Gunn is trying to stare at him. Trying being the key word there. He's beat, exhausted, and he's slipping into sleep. Lindsey untucks the covers from the side of the bed, shoves the bedspread between him and Gunn, settles the blanket over Gunn and the sheet over himself, then follows Gunn into sleep.

***

When Gunn wakes up, he hears Lindsey in the shower. He has to open his eyes and force his mind to focus on all the buttons on the motel's generic clock in order to find out how to turn it off.

Sits up and runs a tired hand across his face. He's going to be worth shit at the hospital, but he figures Cordy'll probably be in the same state so he won't draw attention.

The shower turns off in the bathroom and Gunn sighs tiredly, watching Lindsey pad into the room, a towel around his waist. There's a familiar catch of Gunn's breath, because Lindsey is just...there aren't words. Pretty is too feminine, except when it's applied to Lindsey's mouth. Gorgeous seems superficial. Beautiful is too flowery. Handsome doesn't come anywhere near close.

Lindsey is a wild thing. He seems calm, civilized, but he isn't. He's got this intensity in him that hums and vibrates. When Gunn looks at him, when his breath catches, it's not just because Lindsey has the fucking hottest body Gunn's seen in a long while. It's not just because Lindsey has those pretty lips, or those blue eyes. It's because of everything that's simmering under the surface. All that wildness, waiting to creep on out.

Gunn sees him, and the first thing he wants to do is fuck Lindsey still. Fingers, dick, tongue--doesn't matter how. Just give the boy a chance to just _be_, without everything in him screaming for movement and action.

"There's still hot water left," Lindsey tells him as he gathers up his clothing, and Gunn nods. "Did the sleep help?"

"Yeah, guess it did," he answers. Gets up and stops Lindsey as he's about to step into his pants. Meets that blue gaze steadily and thinks about how he asked for something Lindsey had told him from the start he didn't want to give. "I'm sorry."

Lindsey frowns. "About what?"

"I pushed."

A heavy sigh and Lindsey tosses the pants on the bed. "You asked and I didn't need any convincing. Nothing to apologize for."

But it's a technicality and lately Gunn isn't about technicalities. "Look me in the eye and tell me you would have said yes any other time."

Lindsey tilts his head to the side, his mouth set. "Tell me you would have asked any other time."

Gunn looks away, damning Lindsey's law degree to hell and back because he's too damn good at spinning things. A warm, tan hand takes hold of his face.

"You wanted it and I wanted it," Lindsey says, and his eyes are so bright and blinding that Gunn wants to look away. "The rest of it didn't have anything to do with that. Not really."

But it did, even if Lindsey thinks otherwise. Because Gunn knows. He knows just how damn desperate Lindsey is to be something to someone. How needy he is to be the one who makes someone happy, even for just a minute. He feels like he took advantage of Lindsey. Played on that needy streak to get himself some escape from that picture in his head.

There's no taking it back and that's the coward's way out anyway, in Gunn's mind. Lindsey sees it on his face, because the boy is always on high alert, always trying to anticipate what he can give, whether it'll be accepted.

He sidles up, leans his forehead against Gunn's shoulder and wraps his good arm around Gunn's waist. Gunn closes his eyes for a long moment, and he knows that somehow, he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve Lindsey thinking--even in these short times they have together--that he's worthy of what Lindsey has to give.

And he can't fucking deny him. Can't. Lindsey is so fucking fragile underneath it all that Gunn wants to bring him home, lock out the world, and...feed him. Not food, but everything else. Fatten him up. Get him stronger.

Lindsey sighs the tiniest bit when Gunn's wraps his arms around him, head tilted to the side to rest against Lindsey's wet hair.

"I would have said yes because you asked," Lindsey says oh-so-quietly. "But I didn't."

It's Lindsey truth, and it's humbling in a way that Gunn hasn't experienced since his first days in charge of his crew. Pulls back from Lindsey and sets his hands on either side of that tan face.

"Don't want you saying yes to anything just because I asked," Gunn says steadily. "Understand?" He sighs and leans his forehead against Lindsey's.

"Jesus Christ, Gunn," Lindsey tells him, and there's something like steel in his voice. "It's not a fucking crime for you to _take_ once in a while."

Lindsey pulls away and snatches his pants from the bed, getting them on with angry motions. His face is closed off and Gunn realizes what he just did. He moves behind Lindsey, reaches around and takes his wrists in hand.

Presses his lips against Lindsey's neck and whispers, "Thank you."

Lindsey brushes Gunn's hands aside, which makes Gunn tense for the moment it takes Lindsey to spin around, take his face, and plant a quick, hard kiss on his lips.

"Go. Shower," Lindsey tells him.

The ride back to the hospital is quiet. Not tense, but wary. Gunn can tell Lindsey wants to say something, but doesn't know what. Gunn just wants to sleep some more. He got about three hours before that alarm blared, and he was too tired to dream. He needs more non-dreaming sleep, a lot more, to keep up a good brave face for Wes. Since he won't be getting any more, he'll have to settle on a so-so brave face.

Gunn sees the red line at the curb when they get to the corner. Doesn't look away until Lindsey pulls up next to it, making it impossible to see. He can feel Lindsey's eyes on him, but he just looks at the street, at the people coming and going.

Lindsey's hand touches his shoulder. "You'll be all right, man. So will he. Go in."

Gunn nods, risks a quick glance back at Lindsey--has to be quick or he just might tell Lindsey to him somewhere else--and says, "Thank you."

It's for showing up here to begin with. Maybe for some other stuff, too.

He slips out of the truck and heads inside. Lindsey's still next to the red line when Gunn looks back from the doors. Gunn's lips twitch and he heads for the elevator.


	4. Smoke Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsey's all beaten up and Gunn's all confused about what "epiphany" means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [](http://amand-r.livejournal.com/profile)[**amand_r**](http://amand-r.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Gunn doesn't need the details. He knew all there was to know as soon as he saw Lindsey's truck come through the wall of that house, with Angel at the wheel. Angel and Lindsey are like oil and water. No, worse. Like gas, and a Zippo lighter that doesn't go out until the lid is closed. Except, Angel and Lindsey would rather burn like fools than close the damn lid. And that Zippo? Yeah, doesn't seem to ever run out of butane, no matter how long it's on.

Gunn's not sure which of them he's more frustrated or aggravated with right about now. Wait, no, he does. It's the fool he's looking at right now. The one with blood dripping down his face. The one that looks like he half-fell out of his chair, managed to catch himself, but didn't bother to pick himself all the way back up. Instead, he's clutching to the table in front of him with his one hand.

The stubborn bastard should have gone to a hospital. But, noooo. No, instead he had to come *here*.

"Gunn! I didn't know what else to do..."

He turns his head and reaches out to touch the harried waitress' shoulder. "It's fine, Paula," he says sincerely, squeezing her shoulder and then letting his hand drop when she smiles in relief.

Gunn and Paula are tight acquaintances, since he comes by a couple of times a week for a beer or two. Sometimes Lindsey's there too, but not always. Gunn gave her one of the agency's cards when he found out she walks alone to her car at the end of closing each night.

"Appreciate you calling me, and not the cops." Jerks his head in Lindsey's direction. "When did he get here, and what the hell's he been doing?"

Paula shakes her head, a frown on her face that's a mixture of sympathetic and pissed. "Got here about forty-five minutes ago," she tells Gunn. "And you're looking at what he's been doing. Just...laying there. Mumbling." She raises her brows at Gunn. "Get him out of here. Fast. Bartender said he'd give you five minutes, and that's it."

Gunn presses some cash in Paula's hand as she hurries off. He stays by the door for a moment, and tries to figure out how the hell he's going to get Lindsey out of the bar in five minutes. Because, Lindsey? Stubborn asshole.

Lindsey lifts his head from the table, a cocktail napkin stuck to the blood on his cheek, then slams--oh, hell and *hell*. He slams his *stump* on the battered wood and calls out something about whiskey. In the back of his head, Gunn knows that Lindsey has about zero chance of getting served anything even remotely alcoholic. But in the front of his mind, there's only one thought: no prosthetic. Gunn tosses the idea of a formulating a plan out of his head and strides to the table at the center of the bar.

"Gunn," Lindsey mumbles, his blinking a little funky because there's some blood around his eyes, and it's dried and crusted. "Thought you'd be off kissing Angel's ass."

It makes Gunn hurt to look at him, to watch him try to move, then spasm in pain and draw his stump protectively to his chest. And that last bit? That tells Gunn everything he needs to know about what kind of shape Lindsey's in. Lindsey makes it a point to never, ever draw attention to his missing hand unless it's to make some nasty dig at someone.

Gunn has to take a deep, deep breath. And he has to close his eyes for a second. Because now is not the time for him to go apeshit. Now is the time for getting mule headed lawyers who are beaten the *fuck* up to agree to leave bars. Later Gunn can think about what it means that Angel's had this epiphany, and is supposedly back to his good old self, yet still went ahead and did this to someone.

"Hail, Angel. He who screws everyone over, and always comes out smelling like roses," Lindsey continues. The bitterness in his voice cuts through everything for Gunn.

"Where's your prosthetic?" he asks Lindsey brusquely, bending down to look under the table.

"Four corners of the earth," Lindsey replies angrily. "Bastard smashed it to pieces before he stole my truck."

Gunn stands up straight, and he doesn't let himself react outwardly to that, but inwardly? He's thinking they don't make epiphanies like they used to.

"Get up," he tells Lindsey, hand stretching out to pull the napkin from Lindsey's cheek and drop it on the table. "We've got about ninety seconds before they call the cops."

Lindsey finally jerks himself into a sitting position, and slumps against the back of the chair. "Let them," he bites out. "I'd rather deal with the police than have you pick up where your boss left off." He smiles at Gunn, and it's not pretty. At all. "Some of my blood on your hands. Tribute for your returning god? Screw that."

There are muscles in his body that Gunn never before knew he had, but he knows about them now. Because every single one of them tenses up painfully before he grabs a hold of Lindsey's flannel shirt and jerks the other man to his feet.

Lindsey's eyes darken, and there's no surprise in them. None at all. Gunn brings his face close, keeps his eyes on Lindsey's. The other man is barely struggling. Would probably hurt himself a hell of a lot less if he didn't do it at all. But that's Lindsey. Everything has to be a fight and a struggle, and Gunn is so damn sick of it.

"Where. Are. We?" Gunn asks clearly.

"The bar," Lindsey spits at him.

Gunn nods. "That's right. And why the hell am I here?"

Lindsey's face draws in, becoming something petulant that Gunn used to see on Alonna before she gave him some smart mouthed answer.

"And so help me," Gunn goes on before Lindsey can say anything. "If you say anything about blood for Angel, I will call the damn cops myself." Lindsey glares at him, and Gunn pulls him a little closer. "Why am I here?"

"How the hell should I know?" Lindsey growls, trying to pull away. "It's always about Angel, though."

Gunn doesn't let him go, but he doesn't struggle back, either. For Lindsey it's always about aggression. About violence and anger. Gunn's been there, and he knows what it's like. He also knows that, at the end of the day? It doesn't get a person anywhere but where Lindsey is right now: bleeding and *still* angry.

"Don't," Gunn says quietly, firmly. "Don't pull stuff in that's never been here, Linds. I mean it. Paula called. That's why I'm here."

Lindsey eyes him suspiciously for a long moment, his expression challenging. Something like a minute goes by, and then Lindsey suddenly looks exhausted. And in serious pain. Gunn lets go of his shirt, then steadies him when he sways.

"Need help getting out of here?" Gunn asks casually.

Lindsey shakes his head, but the motion almost topples him. Gunn snorts in exasperation, then hooks Lindsey's left arm around his shoulders, holds the other man up with an arm across his back. Drags him to the door, and Paula's there to hold it open.

Gunn comes to a stop. "Thanks, Paula," he says. "We owe you."

"No problem, Gunn," she replies. "You take care, Lindsey."

Lindsey rouses himself from his pity party long enough to grunt a thank you to Paula, and Gunn wonders if maybe the rest of this messy night might go a little smoother than the first part of it. He has to change his mind about that when Lindsey leans over and pukes all over the sidewalk, two feet from the bar.

"Concussion," he says after he's done.

"No shit," Gunn sighs. "Any more left to come out?"

"No."

"Right. My truck's across the street. We'll get your ass to the hospital."

Gunn starts to move forward, but Lindsey's not budging. Sure bet what's about to come out of his mouth.

"No hospital."

Too bad Gunn didn't bet anyone. "Right," he says again. "Can we--is it safe to go to your place?" Lindsey tenses and Gunn sighs. "It's not safe, then."

"I don't want to go there," Lindsey whispers. He gestures awkwardly, angrily, at himself with the stump. "Not like this."

He lifts his face up, and Gunn knows what he means. Sees it in the softness that Lindsey can't hide. Lindsey doesn't want to walk back into the memories vulnerable. It's a pride thing, like it usually is with Lindsey. Even with Gunn, too, though he likes to think he has more common sense than the lawyer.

"You don't have to," he assures Lindsey. "We'll swing by a drug store. Grab some stuff. Hit a hotel." Raises a brow at Lindsey and grins. "Notice I said 'hotel' and not 'motel'," he drawls as they start to cross the street. "Means you're paying, so I don't want to hear anything about your wallet conveniently falling out of your pocket, you hear?"

Lindsey makes a sputtering noise, and Gunn chooses to think it's some kind of laughter, rather than a sob. Much easier for him to deal with graveside laughter than crying. Bundles Lindsey into his truck, and he's done enough of this kind of stuff that he doesn't even wince when Lindsey lets out a hissed breath of pain. Not possible to get the other man in without it happening, and Gunn damn well knows it.

He slams the door harder than he intended to, then walks around to the driver's side. Stares through the window at Lindsey's battered form and wonders if this is really how the good guys are supposed to act. Fuck that Lindsey has been a thorn in their side. Fuck that Angel and Lindsey within ten feet of one another are just an explosion waiting to happen. Fuck that Lindsey works for Wolfram &amp; Hart.

Because what Gunn sees in the passenger seat of his truck is...a man who's been beaten to a pulp by Angel. A *human* man. And Angel's more than human. Or less. Whatever. The point is, he's stronger and faster and a hell of a lot older. He's a *champion*. If this is what a champion's supposed to do, then what is it that Gunn should be doing? Leaving Lindsey collapsed on some sticky bar table? Enjoying another victory with the others? Tending wounds on Angel that'll heal in two hours?

His focus pulls back, and he's looking at his reflection in the glass. That's the question, and Gunn realizes it's not about whether or not he's gone gray around the edges. It's about whether or not he's so far down in the trenches that *all* that matters is black or white.

Because in the black and white? Lindsey would be getting manhandled into a squad car right about now while Gunn sat around with Wesley and Cordelia, discussing Angel's latest about-face.

But standing there, Gunn doesn't feel like he's in the gray. Just feels like he's doing the right thing. And he wonders if maybe the right thing isn't always as easy to define as he used to think it was.

***

Showering with Gunn. Not something Lindsey's done before. He really wishes he wasn't about to pass out from pain and stupidity so that he could actually enjoy it. Since he is about to, though, he makes do with leaning back on Gunn's chest and marveling at how Gunn running a washcloth over his ribs doesn't hurt like hell.

Then again, that doesn't really require any marveling at all when Lindsey thinks about it. Gunn has feathered his fingers across Lindsey's flesh as often as he's grabbed at it. Looks down at Gunn's long fingers, one set splayed low on Lindsey's abdomen to hold him up, the other brushing the white washcloth along Lindsey's pecs. Lifts his right arm and stares at the place where his wrist just...stops.

"What did I tell you?" Gunn says into his ear, his voice silky smooth and tumbling over Lindsey like that washcloth on his busted ribs. "Eyes straight ahead. Better yet, just close them. Don't need them right now."

No, Lindsey doesn't really need them. He's not doing anything but being propped up and washed. Like a goddamn baby or something. He tries to pull away, but Gunn's grip at his abdomen tightens in a warning. Nothing else is needed. He knows that if he keeps it up, Gunn will hook a leg around his own and bring him down in the hotel bathtub.

Just like he yanked Lindsey to his feet and forced him to remember that the bar was a neutral zone. Switzerland to their Angel Investigations and Wolfram &amp; Hart.

It's a sad commentary on Lindsey's life that there's no one else he can think of who puts Lindsey's good ahead of *anything* else, much less Lindsey's own self-destructive habits. He laughs bitterly, and there's a breath of air by his ear that is Gunn sighing.

"I don't even want to know what's got you laughing," Gunn tells him in annoyance.

No, he really doesn't. If Gunn knew that he was the only damn person in Lindsey's life recently who didn't have some kind of ulterior motive for being there...well, Lindsey thinks he might have a Gunn-shaped roommate. Which isn't something horrible to consider, but is something that smacks too much of pity and extenuating circumstances--on both sides--for Lindsey to seriously consider.

And actually, considering anything seems like too much work all of a sudden. So he closes his eyes like Gunn instructed, and leans back even more.

There isn't any cooing or murmuring, or anything resembling a soft moment coming from Gunn. There's just annoyance, an unspoken "you should have known better" and a concern that's roughed up by aggravation.

Which is really all that Lindsey deserves for his asinine actions. Confronting Angel like that? Not even close to the smartest thing he's ever done, even if he did have a sledgehammer at the time. Because, when he thinks about it now that it's all been said and done, sledgehammer wielding human versus two hundred and forty-plus year old vampire leaves the vampire on the winning end. So damn obviously that Lindsey wonders how it didn't jump out at him before.

Gunn turns him around, presses his hands against Lindsey's shoulder, and suddenly Lindsey is sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

Searches out Gunn's eyes, and sees something angry and worried in them. Lindsey isn't sure if Gunn's mad at him, but he doesn't think so. If that anger was directed at Lindsey, he'd still be in the bar right now, instead of sitting on cold porcelain with Gunn tilting his head up and washing away the blood that collected. Gunn's easy to know in some ways. Hell, in all ways, actually. Which means that the worry is because Lindsey can't stand up on his own right now. Shit.

"I'm fine," he tells Gunn, brushing the cloth away from his face.

Gunn settles back on his haunches, an amazing feat on the slippery bathtub surface, and regards Lindsey with, at first, an arched brow. But then his face shifts, until Lindsey is facing a man with nothing to hide, with spatters of shower spray raining down on him.

"Just let me, all right?" Gunn says quietly. "Just let me..."

And maybe it isn't so much all about Lindsey as it is about Gunn, too. Lindsey wonders why Gunn's additional motives don't chafe the way others' do. Thinks it's because Gunn doesn't focus on the motives, just on the moment. Is focusing just on Lindsey right now, even if in the back of his mind he's wondering about what brought Lindsey to this moment. What brought Angel to bring Lindsey to this moment. What brought Gunn to helping Lindsey after Angel brought--hell, his head is starting to pound.

Nothing is ever easy and simple. Lindsey's known that for years. But Gunn makes it seem that way, even if he's concurrently wondering why things are so complicated. Gunn makes it appear that the lead up is separate from the climax. Maybe it is. Maybe moments are just circles of smoke, only barely attached to one another by lingering, easily dissipating tendrils of smoke.

Or maybe he's just half out of his mind from pain. That's probably it.

Gunn doesn't wash his hair, and Lindsey's grateful for that. Lets Gunn maneuver him into a standing position, then cooperates with Gunn's prodding nudges to step over the bathtub ledge and onto a bath mat.

Before Lindsey realizes what's happened, he's been dried off, and there's a towel around his waist. Gunn's too.

"Come on, lawyer boy," Gunn drawls, opening the door into the sleeping area.

Patching up Lindsey only takes half an hour, and that's because Gunn knows what the hell he's doing. Slaps some butterfly bandages across a few cuts, leaves others to heal on their own, wraps some industrial strength tape around Lindsey's ribs.

"How's that feel?" Gunn asks as he cuts the tape with a pair of sewing scissors he liberated from the complimentary sewing kit in the bathroom.

Lindsey takes an experimental breath, decides the binding and pain are at the exact right levels and tells Gunn, "Perfect."

Then Gunn overturns a bottle of ibuprofen and offers Lindsey six of them and a glass of water. Lindsey scoops the pills out of Gunn's hand, sets them on his tongue, then reaches for the glass. They go down harshly, the coating seeped away to something bitter as the pills sat on his tongue, and it takes work to convince them to slide back to his throat.

"Thanks," he says awkwardly, handing the glass back to Gunn, who stands up from his position crouched in front of Lindsey, and sets it on the end table by the bed. "You don't have to stay."

Gunn tilts his head to the side. "I know," he says steadily. "But I want to. That okay with you?" He looks around the suite and grins. "Lot fancier than my digs, that's for sure. Plus--cable. Always a bonus."

Lindsey grins back at him. "Stay as long as you want," he tells Gunn. And he means it. Would leave his credit card on reserve if Gunn asked. Which he won't. Which Lindsey thinks says more about Gunn than words ever could. Which is what Lindsey appreciates the most about Gunn.

And, hell, there goes his head again. Too much thinking is bound to do that, even when Lindsey hasn't just been creamed by the looming, vitamin D deficient caveman that is Angel. And, shit, it's really bright in the room.

"Can we turn off some of the lights?" he asks Gunn gruffly, squinting.

"Yeah. I just needed them to see all the damage. Gimme a sec."

Gunn adjusts his towel around his waist, then moves around the room with a grace that Lindsey can't stop watching. Fluid. Alive. Easy. He turns off all but the bathroom light, which casts the sleeping area in dim shadows.

"You realize you can't sleep, right?" Gunn comments as he walks to the armoire across from the bed and opens the two doors. The television comes into view as Lindsey mumbles that he knows he can't sleep, what with the concussion and all.

Gunn tunes the television in to a comedy channel, then comes back to the bed Lindsey's perched on. Tosses the towel aside, then drapes himself across the bed, head lifted up by two hotel pillows.

There's a lot of the jungle cat in Gunn, from his long limbs, to the easy grace, to the sleepy eyes he turns on Lindsey.

"Appreciate the once over," he says with satisfaction, brown eyes glittering. "Really. It's good for the ego. But you're in no shape. Watch the funny movie and try to stay awake. Look, there's talking animals."

Lindsey turns to the television, and realizes Gunn wasn't joking. Blinks twice and shakes his head. "Jesus, that's creepy. Just...creepy."

"Nah. Not like it used to be. That computer stuff's come a long way." Lindsey turns and looks at him again, and Gunn pats the space next to him. "Move on up. You look uncomfortable down there." A beat. "Also, your head's square in my way."

Lindsey rolls his eyes and begins the process of crawling/dragging himself up the bed. He's breathing heavily by the time he flops down next to Gunn, half on his side, half on his face. The towel is tangled somewhere around his knees, and Gunn jerks it off in one swift motion.

"Patched into the television through that pillow?" Gunn asks with amusement.

Lindsey pulls his good hand out from where it's trapped until his thigh, gives Gunn the finger. "Think I'll stay here for a while," he says, words muffled against the pillowcase.

"Suit yourself. But you're missing some damn good acting by Mr. Tinkles."

"I'm dying from the regret," Lindsey drawls sarcastically.

"And I've got to wonder," Gunn goes on, a know-it-all tone in his voice, "just how long you'll last before your ribs start bitching about you laying on them."

Lindsey's life abides by every one of Murphy's Laws, and everything about tonight lives up to it. The second the last word is out of Gunn's mouth, Lindsey's ribs start screaming at him like a goddamn banshee.

Tries to push himself up, but he's positioned such that he actually needs a hand on his right side to get any leverage. Sinks down against the mattress and decides to just stay where the fuck he is, screaming ribs be damned.

There's a dizzying motion, and he's suddenly sprawled on his back, Gunn looking down at him with amusement.

"Stubborn fool," he pronounces, shaking his head, before sitting up and facing the television again. "Watch the evil kitty."

And really, that's all there is. It takes a moment before it sinks in, but it does sink in.

Get beaten up. Get patched up. Watch the evil kitty.

The 1-2-3s of Gunn, right there, while for Lindsey it's 1-1.25-1.5-1.75-2. With a hell of a lot more in between one and two. Every miniscule thing brought up for examination and inspection before it needs to be. Everything on the table at once, so that Lindsey doesn't even know where to focus first.

But it's like three little smoke circles for Gunn right now, and somewhere down the line there'll be more--so barely connected to the first three that they might as well be their own set. All broken down and easy to see and deal with.

Lindsey's not sure that's something he can do, but for the moment he doesn't have to. All he's got to do is lie back and watch the evil kitty. That's kind of doable right now. In fact, it's about all he can do right now.


	5. Miasma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys take stock of, well, each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a big shiny present with Lar's name on it.

There's a whole lot of reasons why Gunn does this thing he does with Lindsey, why he guesses Lindsey does it back. It's about Angel and it's about Darla; it's about AI and it's about Wolfram &amp; Hart; it's about Gunn and it's about Lindsey.

They don't talk about any of that shit, though. They talk about everything else, and sometimes they'll get as close as talking *around* the shit, but the way Gunn figures it? They both spend enough time talking to other people about how jacked up things are, and they each know how jacked up things are for the other. Know the hows and whys, too.

But sometimes, Gunn isn't even thinking about the reasons. Times like right now.

Lindsey sleeps like he's lying in a hospital bed: flat on his back, confined to a twin-sized bed space even though it's a king-sized bed, with the covers tucked around him to leave his arms free. Arm, actually. Damn if Lindsey doesn't keep his right arm under the covers when he sleeps. And damn if his side of the bed doesn't stay neat and unrumpled. His good arm is thrown over his head, blue eyes hidden by lids, left leg riding down the bed nice and straight, and right leg slightly bent at the knee.

He doesn't sprawl. He doesn't curl up. He rarely shifts onto his side.

It's like looking at someone who's unconscious. And really tense. Gunn's never seen someone look less relaxed when they're asleep.

Hell, Lindsey's tense most of the time, except right after they're done messing around, but Gunn still can't believe that it stays with him when he's out for the count. Or maybe he can.

There's a line down the center of Lindsey's forehead on account of the way he's almost frowning. Those full lips of his are pressed together, not even a little bit open, because his jaw is locked up good and tight. He doesn't grind his teeth, but he clenches them damn hard. Gunn thinks the reason that Lindsey runs a hand across his jaw when he first wakes up is to convince it to move after hours of being abused while he sleeps.

But Lindsey's hair? Gunn smiles, and it's smug. Yeah, the hair looks messed up. One of the first things Gunn does when they get started is mess up that hair, because after he pulls back from kissing Lindsey, there's no better sight than glazed blue eyes, wet, parted lips, and that sandy brown hair looking like someone's *been* there. Like Gunn's been there, gripping it just a little to keep Lindsey's mouth right where he wants it, or move it where he needs it.

Gunn stretches out a hand, touches his fingers to Lindsey's forehead. Lindsey's skin isn't soft, but it's not rough, either. It's skin that's seen hours of the sun, maybe taken a little bit of damage in the process. Just a slight of texture to it. Enough to keep it interesting. Enough for Gunn's fingertips to tingle just a bit when he drags them up and down the almost-frown-line, pressing down a little until the tension gives and muscles shift right and left.

It'd be better if he didn't forget all the complicated reasons about why he and Lindsey do this, and he knows it. Better if he could get up after it's done, pull his clothes on, and head on out. But there'd been a lot of mutual using in his crew, what with all of them living half-a-step outside of normal and having only each other, and it wasn't ever something cold and clinical. Lindsey's been mixed up with crew people in Gunn's mind since the first night at the bar, and there's unwritten rules that go with playing within the crew.

Gunn's fingers travel down to Lindsey's lips. They're damn nice lips, especially for a white boy. Nice and full and always looking like they're ready for something, anything. Sweet little curves that make a person wonder if they can live up to what they're promising. A little on the pretty side, but considering how well they live up to what they promise, Gunn's not complaining about that at all.

He cups his hand along the side of Lindsey's jaw, then tugs down on the bottom lip with his thumb, a small bit of pressure. Runs it along the shiny part of lip he exposes, then pushes. He keeps his thumb moving, slight little nudges up and down. There's a noise, kind of like a knuckle cracking but a lot more muffled, and then Lindsey's jaw unlocks and his mouth slides open.

He pulls his thumb away from Lindsey's lips and then takes hold of the covers across Lindsey's chest. Nudges them down so that they're at waist-level instead. Without a doubt, that chest is Gunn's favorite part of Lindsey. Running his hands across it is like walking a trail, or something. Dips and rises that just kind of flow along all natural and smooth. But he ignores the chest for a moment, because Lindsey's sleep doesn't get disturbed if Gunn touches his face--and that's really freaky, because Gunn can't sleep through someone even *looking* at him hard--but he gets restless when his right arm is uncovered.

It's not hideous. A little disturbing, not seeing a hand where a hand should be, but Gunn's seen worse. A lot worse. The line where Lindsey's wrist stops is straight and neat. At the edge, and a little ways up, there are grooves in Lindsey's skin from where the prosthetic straps on. Gunn has the feeling that they shouldn't be there, especially not hours after Lindsey takes it off, and that Lindsey keeps the thing way tighter than it needs to be. Probably terrified of it falling off at work, in front of someone like Lilah.

Gunn's learned more about Lindsey by watching him sleep than he learned from everything Angel, Cordy and Wes told him. More than he's learned from having sex with Lindsey, even, because sex gives a person insight into someone else, but it's not always stuff that's true when the sex isn't being had. More than he's learned from conversation, too, because Lindsey holds his cards close to his damn fine chest.

It all comes down to one thing that leads to every other thing: Lindsey's got this vulnerability in him. He covers it with sneers and nasty words, but it's there. It causes the anger, it makes him bristle up like a porcupine or something to protect himself, and it sends him tearing off to do something stupid more often than not.

And if Gunn closes his eyes, he can imagine Lindsey just dropping all the shit, and diving headfirst into the other extreme. Going entirely exposed and vulnerable. It's not a good image, not to Gunn. Because there aren't many people in the world who don't take advantage of something like that when it's directed at them, don't try to suck it dry.

Gunn takes hold of Lindsey's right arm, lifts it off the bed and rubs at the indents at Lindsey's wrist, scratches lightly at them with his nails. Lindsey sighs a little in his sleep, and Gunn's lips pull into a half-smile. Spends a little time on each of the main grooves, then sets Lindsey's arm down--on the outside of the covers.

Then it's back to Lindsey's chest. Gunn maps it with both hands, like he's done a half dozen times. Keeps the touches light and easy, because he really doesn't want to wake Lindsey up. His chest has the same texture as his face, just a little less so, and Gunn knows he probably spent a lot of time outdoors, shirtless, back before he came to the city. Sucks in a breath and pictures Lindsey wearing a low riding pair of faded jeans, and nothing else.

Gunn's a bit jealous of the chest. It's one that he's kind of always wanted, but his body just ain't made that way. It's too long and lanky to get Lindsey's curves and dips without Gunn pumping iron five days out of seven, and growing a thick neck to match. But the next best thing to having one, is *having* one, and Gunn usually gives a lot of attention to Lindsey's chest when they're hot and heavy.

Gunn never gets to give it as much as he wants, though, because Lindsey's got a thing for getting his back touched. He always manages to shift and twist enough to redirect Gunn's hands. Even in his sleep.

Little by little, Lindsey turns. Seems like he's trying to move towards Gunn's hands, but that's not it. He's on his side, then he dips some more and he's lying on his stomach, Gunn's hands neatly deposited on his back and the sheets tangled around his legs and waist.

Shaking his head, Gunn leans forward and drops a kiss at the nape of Lindsey's neck, his hands ghosting along Lindsey's spine, then down the muscles on either side of it. He feels them quiver then relax as he goes along. More damn tension. Lindsey's back is riddled with it, and isn't much better when Gunn stops five minutes later, too tired at this point to keep his eyes open.

Gunn keeps one hand on Lindsey's back, settles himself on his side, and closes his eyes.

***

Lindsey always wakes up before Gunn. Which makes sense, since Lindsey always falls asleep before him. He tried to outlast Gunn once and just drifted off mid-sentence in the process.

It's the leader in Gunn, the protector. He can't rest until his people are settled down for the night. Lindsey thinks he probably strolled through whatever building he and the other street kids were squatting in, checking in on everyone, giving some encouraging words to the ones on guard duty, then finally giving in and getting himself some rest.

Lindsey doesn't think that *he's* ever been so outwardly focused. At least not on more than one person, and not in a way that wasn't a little bit over the top. Thinks of Darla and amends that to obsessive. And Gunn's reasons for it are entirely different than Lindsey's. Gunn protects people, and grooms them to take care of themselves. It's about them reaching their potential, and not about Gunn being validated by people looking to him, at him, up to him.

There's something about the weight on the other side of the bed that makes Lindsey keep his eyes closed. In his time with Wolfram &amp; Hart, he's learned that there are creatures, wraiths, demons, that gain power over you if you look at them. That's not why Lindsey doesn't open his eyes and look at Gunn, though. It's because of the other creatures. The ones that disappear if you look at them.

The weight's enough, though. So is the sharp elbow that jabs into his ribs when Gunn shifts.

People aren't made for being alone, and being alone isn't always about being *alone*. Lindsey spends the weekdays with a thousand other Wolfram &amp; Hart employees. For a while, Darla was a daily presence in his home, his bed.

Lying in a motel bed, eyes closed, feeling the heat that comes from another person settled close by, Lindsey feels less alone than he does at work. Than when Darla was with him, but not really with *him*.

There are messy circumstances that are responsible for Gunn and Lindsey being in this motel. Messy and layered and painful. But Lindsey has never felt that Gunn wasn't with him, that he wasn't with Gunn. It's a nice change, the messiness not overtaking everything.

He wonders sometimes just when Gunn is gong to rethink this. Knows it'll get cut off from Gunn's end, and Lindsey will spend a few weeks worth of evenings waiting for Gunn at the bar where they'd first met until he finally accepts the truth.

He doubts he'll be ready for it, but that doesn't matter so much to him at this point. There's too much in him that he doesn't know that he'll ever get a reign on. He just hopes that Gunn ends it because he's finally sorted his own head out, rather than because life has dealt them both another serving of shit.

Lindsey has a fair idea what Gunn's stuck on, and he expects to be sitting in the bar on his own damn soon. Isn't sure why he hasn't already, because it's pretty damn clear that Gunn's one of the good guys. So clear it that it's mind boggling to Lindsey that Gunn is questioning it. But the fact is that if there's one thing Angel is good for, it's making people question which side they're on.

He cracks open an eye long enough to glance at his watch. It's two-thirty and Gunn will probably sleep for another half hour. Then they'll crawl out of bed, take a shower and go on to their separate homes. Tomorrow, Lindsey will ignore the urge to go to the bar to see if Gunn's there. But he'll wonder if Gunn is there, if Gunn is looking up every time the door opens. And the night after that Lindsey will stop home after work long enough to change before giving in.

Gunn has never not shown up at the bar on the nights Lindsey does. Lindsey's not sure what that means and he tries not to think about it too much. Because, hell, he already spends too much time thinking about things he shouldn't. He can't help it. He's always wanted things he shouldn't, always gone after them when he *knows* better.

He thinks about calling Gunn for no real reason. He thinks about the two of them going out to dinner or a game or something like that. About having someone in his home who is fucking there because of *him*, not because of a thousand other reasons that just make it convenient to be there. Thinks about feeling calm and unruffled for longer than just the few scattered right-nows he has with Gunn.

He thinks about being really selfless and sitting Gunn down. Getting it through Gunn's thick skull that he hasn't followed Angel into some fucked up miasma where morals and ethics are skewered and shredded. Getting through to Gunn, even though it would mean Gunn never showing up at the bar again because Lindsey is in that miasma.

Lindsey knows it would be worth it. Knows that Gunn deserves someone to turn the tables on him, give as good as they get from him. The only problem is that Gunn wouldn't hear him. He calls Lindsey stubborn, but Gunn's got his own stubborn streak. Like most people, he's got to come to things on his own. That hasn't stopped Lindsey from spending too damn much time trying to figure out a way to do it, though.

Every once in a while? He thinks about what it would be like to have right-now all the time. But even he's not idiotic enough to really consider it.

Part of that is because he knows this thing with Gunn is something born out of confusion and complications. Who the fuck knows where he and Gunn would stand with each other if all of that were stripped away? No guarantee that it'd be anywhere at all.

But mostly it's because he knows Gunn would rip him a new one if he suggested going full time. Oh, he'd be flattered, and Lindsey can actually picture the way Gunn's eyes would shine--like there were bright sparks of white light in his eyes. But then Gunn would tell Lindsey to grow a brain and learn to think practically.

Gunn mutters something in his sleep, a mishmash of consonants that don't make any sense, then kicks out with his leg, catching Lindsey in the thigh. Eyes still closed, Lindsey smiles.

Yeah, he thinks about doing a lot of things regarding Gunn. But he doesn't. Figures pulling something monumentally stupid would just piss Gunn off to no end.

Rash actions. Acceptable risks. There's a subtlety between the two that Lindsey can't distinguish when he's in the middle of something, but which is glaringly obvious to Gunn at all times. Lindsey doesn't think he's ever been as envious of anyone as he is of Gunn and his ability to distinguish. He thinks maybe it's really admiration. Another case of a subtle difference that he's realized exists.

And maybe he knows why Gunn hasn't sorted his head out yet. Because knowing something...that's not the same as knowing all the little details about how it works, and how it affects you, and how it feels. Like, fire burns; it's a known fact. But until a person gets singed a bit, they don't understand just what burning *is*.

So Gunn's got to understand what that miasma is, rather than just knowing it exists. Lindsey figures that might be something he can help out with.

Gunn's starting to get more restless, a sure sign he's waking up. Lindsey runs a hand through his hair and finally opens his eyes.


	6. A Mirror and Some Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsey's leaving town.

It's a white noise type of silence in Gunn's apartment. The buzzing of the fluorescent light from the bathroom. The muted hum of traffic coming up from the street. The loud ass sound of a television coming in through the thin walls from the next apartment.

Gunn likes it. He's a city boy, born and bred. Reared in the concrete jungle, canopied with smog and littered with broken glass. He's used to hearing footsteps running across that glass all night long, lungs coughing on the smog, buildings swaying and settling.

Too much silence makes his skin prickle, sends the hair on his arms upright. Because it's not natural in his jungle--someone else's, maybe, but not his. Too much silence usually means something's hiding somewhere nearby, wanting to tear his throat out.

Next to him on the bed, Lindsey grumbles incoherently before pulling the pillow out from under his head and covering his face with it. Gunn doesn't hear the words this time, but he knows it's just some kind of variation of, "Too damn loud."

Lindsey's a country boy. He's used to different white noise. Muffled footsteps on grass. The occasional twig snapping. Animals calling out to one another. Crickets chirping constantly.

In Lindsey's posh apartment, Gunn can't hear shit from the outside world. The one and only night he spent there, Gunn left the next morning in serious need of a neck massage--his muscles had been bunched up so damn tight for so damn long that they wouldn't release.

Tonight is payback. Gunn's place is way louder than the motels they started meeting at after that first time, and he's hoping it'll give Lindsey an appreciation of what he went through. And make him fork over the cash Gunn had to shell out on that massage. Eighty bucks. An amount that Gunn is pretty sure Lindsey can scrape together from spare change lying around the posh apartment, but which Lindsey refuses to pay out of sheer asshole-ness.

"Get my pants," Lindsey says in that whiskey voice of his, tossing a pillow to the floor in frustration.

Gunn looks at him in surprise. "You leaving? Thought that almighty pride of yours would have you here all night."

"It will," Lindsey confirms. "My wallet is in my pants. Eighty, right?"

There's a smug grin on Gunn's face as he gropes on the floor by his side of the bed, trying to find Lindsey's pants blindly. And doing his best to wrinkle every piece of clothing he comes across, just so he can watch Lindsey leave later looking all rumpled and fucked.

The wallet is leather and softer than butter, and it probably cost Lindsey triple the amount he's pulling out. Gunn doesn't much care. It's not about the money. Though, eighty is damn steep in his opinion, and he thinks now that he could have gotten the same neck massage from Cordy for forty.

Lindsey hands him the bills with the irritated eyes of a competitive man who's lost, and Gunn takes it with the glittering eyes of a competitive man who's won.

"It's like trying to sleep in Grand Central," Lindsey mutters, glaring at nothing in particular, and everything in general.

Gunn sits up as well, legs sliding over the side of the bed and feet hitting the floor. "I'm gonna get something to eat."

"Wore out your reserves?" Lindsey asks with a smirk.

Gunn wants to deny that, but it's the truth. Normally, he'd deny it anyway they've both got enough bullshit in their lives that he can't bring himself to find a place for it here.

"Yeah, guess so," he admits. "But I'm also guessing you're starving right about now, too."

And Lindsey seems to agree with Gunn's thoughts on bullshit; his tan face creases as he smiles drolly. "Have anything worth eating in this place?" he wants to know.

They pad into the kitchen, feet as bare as their bodies, and Lindsey stands in the doorway while Gunn rummages through the refrigerator. Damn, he's been spending so much time at the hotel, he can't remember the last time he stocked up on food.

The cupboards are just as empty. He turns to tell Lindsey that their only options are Count Chocula cereal--without milk--or tuna. But when he catches sight of the other man in the doorway, he stops and stares.

Because it's Lindsey. Lindsey who is a whole lot of things, but who is mostly...just really damn *fine* standing there naked and grinning like he knows everything going through Gunn's head, all of it centered around Lindsey's well-defined chest and blue, blue eyes.

"What do you have, do-gooder?"

He says it casually, but the arch of his eyebrow is smug as all get out. It makes Gunn want to use the month old milk in the 'fridge to fix a bowl of Count Chocula for Lindsey. Just to wipe that arrogant look off his face when the chunky milk hits his tongue.

"Tuna?" Gunn offers instead, holding up the can. "Got some mayo, but no bread."

Lindsey glances down at his newly restored hand, flexes his fingers, and shrugs. "I'm feeling brave tonight."

The can opener is in the drawer by the sink, and Gunn pulls it out and clamps it on the can of tuna. "So, what the hell happened tonight when you and Angel got all Buddy Cop Movie Duo?"

"Usual," Lindsey says dismissively. "Butted heads with him and killed the guy whose hand I have."

Gunn tosses him a look over his shoulder as he drains the water out of the tuna can. "That all? Seems pretty tame for you two."

Lindsey shrugs. "Well, not every night can end with us beating the crap out of each other with sledgehammers."

"Oh, so you save that for special nights, then?"

"Need to have something to look forward to."

Gunn dumps the tuna into a bowl, slaps some may on top and mixes it together, then scoops half of it into another bowl. His forks seem to have hightailed it for better homes while he was out, so they make do with spoons.

They stand in the kitchen and eat, eyes meeting every so often.

Gunn's from the jungle, and it's predator and prey there. They brush shoulders as they pass each other on the street, and Gunn has always thought that everybody was one or the other.

Lindsey's from the country, and it's hunter and hunted there. It's camouflaged guys hidden away in bushes, just waiting patiently for some poor animal to wander into range. And while they wait for the dumb ass animal to come along, they do things like talk about their kids and figure out what to get their mothers for Christmas.

Back when this first started, Gunn used to stare at Lindsey. Not anything specific, but Lindsey as a whole. He'd stare and try to see if they were the same, see if he had somehow shifted from walking through his jungle to crouching in some bushes. That's the reason *why* it started, too. At least for him.

Gunn's putting their empty bowls in the sink when Lindsey finally gets around to giving him a real answer about what happened tonight.

"I'm leaving town tomorrow."

After rinsing out the bowls, Gunn turns back around and folds his arms across his chest. Gunn's not stupid, but he has no problem playing the part once in a while. Asking questions whose answers seem obvious is his preferred method of getting the information he wants.

"Business trip?" he asks Lindsey casually.

Lindsey's lips tilt up, a combination of genuine smile and knowing smirk. "You'd make a damn good lawyer," he drawls, raspy-voiced. His eyes find Gunn's, and lock in while he deliberately shakes his head. "Turning in my notice tomorrow, and leaving for good." He looks around, eyes drawn to the windows that let in the sound. "It's too damn loud here."

That last bit is the key to it all. Country boy was at the point where he was going to have to join the predator and prey mentality of the city, and pick a side for himself. The thing is, Gunn's stared at Lindsey enough to know that the man is made for crouching in the bushes with a rifle on his shoulder, talking about his kids.

Just like Gunn knows now that he's made for prowling through the concrete jungle, keeping the predators from having free reign of the prey. Made for it and still doing it, even if things were crazy for a while.

So it's finally settled, and Gunn drops his arms to his sides and strides towards Lindsey, who walks towards him at the same time. Damn if either of them just stand and wait for the other.

Up close, it's impossible to see the whole, so Gunn skims his gaze from part to part; full lips, pale eyes set against tanning bed tan, crow's feet starting at all the usual creases. And that almost challenging, definitely amused, and kind of needy look that's just all over the boy's face.

Boy, even though Lindsey's got a couple years on Gunn. Because there was something in Lindsey's eyes that first night, something Gunn has seen in the eyes of every street kid he brought into his crew: confused, simmering, pointless anger.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a fluttering motion. Knows it's Lindsey flexing his fingers again; he's been doing it ever since he showed up three hours ago.

Gunn feels the corners of his mouth tilt up. "We running out of time?" he asks, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Lindsey's neck.

"Don't have to be in until eleven," Lindsey replies, voice huskier than usual, and he steps closer so that they're pressed together. Then he waits, because it's Gunn who leads the crew, and they know to follow his lead.

Gunn nods slowly and watches Lindsey blink once, twice, three times. "We got time, then," he says, stepping forward and backing Lindsey to the bedroom.

***

There's pathetically little stashed in the back of Lindsey's truck. His guitar, his spare pair of shit kicking boots. Clothing that's denim, regular cotton, or flannel. Everything else was left behind. Everyone else, too. He's not all that concerned. When he thinks about it, he realizes that there's nothing and no one he'll miss.

At a red light in a shady part of town that he has to pass through to get to the freeway, his focus shifts a little until he's no longer looking out of windshield, but at it. Angel was right about the windshield--his truck was one of the first models that had the wraparound variety. Nifty trivia, but what it means practically is that getting it repaired is almost impossible, and Angel's joyride left it desperately in need of repairing.

Lindsey thought he was going to have to leave the truck behind, because not even the guy at the junkyard was able to track down a replacement. The truck was dry docked up until this afternoon, when he stopped by for a last look and saw the shiny new windshield. There's no question about who did it. Gunn, after all, has a truck of his own that he's damn attached to.

He picks up his cell phone and punches in a number. Gunn answers with a short, "Yeah?"

"It's about simplicity," Lindsey says as he hooks a right turn.

There's a pause, then Gunn's voice sounds again. Dry and amused even through the crackling connection. "Didn't we have this conversation once before? You stank of cheap ass moonshine or something, and you could barely stand. There were words that weren't even words coming out your mouth."

Lindsey remembers. Wishes he didn't, because he knows that muddlededexity isn't even a medical term, much less a word. But half a bottle of--hell, he can't remember what he ordered, but whatever it was, half a bottle of it made him slur and ramble incoherently.

"Well, I'm sober now," Lindsey tells Gunn.

"Want a medal or something?" Gunn asks sarcastically.

"Just listen," Lindsey says easily. "I'm trying to tell you something. It's about simplicity."

There's a quick fade out of sound as Gunn's call waiting sounds, and Gunn asks him to hold. When he comes back on the line, there's something very amused in his voice. "Do you know there's a sign on the back of your truck that's going to get you beaten like your name is Rodney King if you get pulled over?"

"Shit," Lindsey mutters, jerking the wheel to the right and double parking. "What, have you got me bugged?"

"Right. Because I really want to hear you wailing along with some country song while you're driving. Nah, one of my boys who worked on the windshield saw you driving."

"Thanks for that," Lindsey says as he climbs out of the truck.

"Man shouldn't be leaving his truck behind."

To hear him say it, it's like sacrilege of some kind, or--fuck. The sign is big. It looks like a kid wrote it. Lindsey's pretty damn impressed he isn't already living up to Gunn's police brutality scenario.

"It's. About. Simplicity," Lindsey says as he tears the sign off and stows it in the flatbed. And he's really trying to remember the simplicity deal, because right now he's a blotchy mess of aggravated, enraged, amused and a bit reminiscent. All because of that damn sign. Asshole.

"Simplicity," Gunn repeats. "So you've said. A lot. Gonna get any farther this time?"

Lindsey grunts and aims a frustrated kick at the rear tire before glaring at the sign and stalking to the cab of the truck. "When things aren't simple, they're not always complicated," he says, turning the key in the ignition. "Sometimes they're just...muddled."

"That a fact?" Gunn drawls. "Sounds like a fortune cookie."

"Things can seem complicated," Lindsey lectures as he starts driving again. "But that's just because the distractions seem like more than distractions. They're not, though. They're just smoke, and once you clear it out, you see that it's simple--that it never stopped being simple. It's a moment of clarity."

Lindsey doesn't get a reply other than silence. Which is fine, because he knows Gunn gets it. Gets it beyond just understanding it. Gunn's a simple man. Not dumb, or uncomplicated, just simple. He rarely gets distracted by the smoke. Stands perfectly still and sees that moment of clarity around writhing tendrils of smoke. Lindsey, on the other hand, has spent too damn long recently wandering through the haze and trying to grope blindly for that moment.

Angel's probably congratulating himself on showing Lindsey the path, and Lindsey doesn't really care that Angel's taking credit for something he had nothing to do with. In actuality, Angel was the smoke. Angel and Darla and Wolfram &amp; Hart. But Gunn is the take-charge guy at the bar who opens the door for a bit to air out the place, and the credit is his.

A few more turns and Lindsey's coming up on the onramp for the freeway.

"So what you're saying is, it's about clarity," Gunn says eventually.

Lindsey's grinning, and he can't help it. He's got a phone held to his ear with one hand, and is steering with the other. His windshield isn't cracked down the center and threatening to crumble to pieces any second, and Gunn is being Gunn.

"No," he counters. "It's about simplicity."

"Which takes you to clarity," Gunn replies matter-of-factly.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Sweet talker," Gunns says insinuatingly.

Lindsey laughs, and it's a little rusty but he remembers how to do it. He pulls onto the freeway and rolls his shoulders. Almost free. "I'd better ditch the phone. It's company issue," he tells Gunn.

"Take care of that truck," he hears Gunn say. "Had to use all my contacts to track down that windshield for you. Won't be able to get another."

Lindsey doesn't realize he's flexing his fingers until he accidentally hits a button on the phone. "I'll take care of it," he says, then tosses the phone out of the open window before anything else can be said.


	7. Roadside Attractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call from the road.

Lindsey calls him sometimes. Usually in the middle of the night. Gunn knows the timing is deliberate, that Lindsey's just being a little shit like always. Takes it with a grain of salt and a little bit of nostalgia. 'Cause it's been about six months since Lindsey went riding off into the night, and Gunn realized during week one that he kind of got used to Lindsey.

"Asshole," Gunn says into his cell after picking it up on the third ring. Lindsey's still on the move, and Gunn can only guess that it's him calling since the other man doesn't have a permanent number yet. But, three a.m.? An area code on the caller ID that Gunn can't identify? Sure bet it's Lindsey. If not, whoever's on the other end can just deal. It's three in the fucking morning.

"Good morning, sunshine," Lindsey says, husky voice not due to getting woken up. It's like fine sandpaper in Gunn's ear, that voice. The kind that's not rough enough to draw blood, but *just* rough enough to make his fingers tingle when he runs them against the grain.

Sits up in bed and rubs his eyes, tries to wake up and then just slumps back and closes his eyes. "Your timing sucks, you know that?" he gripes. "I only got about ten hours of sleep this entire week. This was going to be the night I *slept*."

"I'm crying for you. Really, I am," Lindsey drawls.

Gunn smiles in the darkness of his bedroom. Lets himself drift into a barely awake state and it's like he's floating.

The first call came seven hours after Lindsey hit the freeway out of L.A. It was the only time Lindsey called from a place he currently was, because it was so close to L.A. that it didn't matter if the call was being listened in on. Told Gunn he was in four states at once, and Gunn heard that Lindsey was realizing the possibilities of, well, everything.

"So what dumbass thing did you see, lately, huh? Another big ball of twine?"

"Not lately, but yeah, I did see another."

Sometimes when Lindsey calls, he's bursting with stuff to say. Like he stores it up while he's wandering around. Like he doesn't talk to anyone else. Gunn doubts that's the case, but he does think that some of the calls are less about a big ass ball of twine, and more about Lindsey. Still, Gunn's tired mind can't really think much past the fact that Lindsey saw two really big balls of twine, in two different places. That is...something, all right.

"I read that book you sent," Gunn says into the silence. "That *American Gods* one."

"Yeah?"

"It was a head thing."

A raspy chuckle. "A head thing. You're a poet, man. A real poet."

"It's three in the morning," Gunn grumbles. "What else do you expect from me?"

"Exactly what I'm getting," is the reply Lindsey gives, and Gunn remembers.

Lindsey used to wake him up in the middle of the night, at whatever motel they were meeting in. Wake him up and ask him about everything under the sun. Lindsey still does it now, during middle of the night calls, and Gunn still has no idea why he can't ask the questions when Gunn's awake.

"Good or bad head thing?" Lindsey asks him.

Gunn thinks about that. Thinks about gods that were brought to America along with the people who believed in them. Gods who became echoes of themselves as time passed and new generations believed less and less in the old world myths, who faded away into nothingness when no one believed. Of a hall filled with statues of dead gods with no names listed, because the names were lost forever, forgotten that completely. Thinks about what they might do to never be forgotten, or to be entirely forgotten.

"Both, I guess. I mean, my line of work? Not really wanting to consider that there are *gods* just wandering around, plain as day. Especially not when they're sorta powerful and temperamental. But, yeah, it was interesting. Guess I know what you're about, now."

And Gunn does. He understands why, each time Lindsey calls, there's another mention of another roadside attraction. Powerful places, that book said. Places where people build strange things, do strange things, because there's something in the air, the land, the water, that compels them to. That demands it. So in Joliet, Montana, there's a giant metal sculpture that skiing freaks pray to for snow. And in North Dakota there's the World's Largest Buffalo.

And in both of those places, and others, there's been Lindsey, like he's hoping to take some of the power away with him, or something.

"Got me to thinking," Gunn continues.

"What about?" Lindsey asks, and there's genuine interest there.

"Graceland."

"As in Elvis?"

"Yeah. No. Not Graceland; places *like* Graceland. I mean, you've got places that naturally have this power, right?" Lindsey makes a noise of agreement. "But what about places that don't have it naturally, but they get these...shit, what's that word? Worshippers?"

"Acolytes," Lindsey says slowly, with certainty, like he's on to where Gunn's going. Probably is. That law school degree is legit, after all.

"Right. All those acolytes, all that belief in a space--it's gotta fill that place with the power. Make it what it wasn't."

Gunn lets the pause go on and on, his mind still pretty damn fuzzy and that floating sensation making him press his head down harder on the pillow beneath it. Absently counts the seconds that go by, and gets to four hundred and thirty two before Lindsey speaks again.

"Interesting theory," he says finally.

"Wonder if it works on people," Gunn mumbles. "Make yourself into something sacred. Something powerful. That'd be badass."

***

Lindsey's in Vermont. He hates it. Thinks that maybe he got a little too used to the non-seasons of California. Tosses the motel's scratchy comforter off and fingers the wood of his guitar, which is sitting on the bed next to him. It's varnished and shiny in some places, worn down by his fingers and picks in other places. An uneven, confused terrain that Lindsey has to look away from because it hits too close to home.

Thinks about what Gunn's just said and wonders if he'll ever achieve that level of common-man brilliance. Because, it really *would* be badass to imbue the ground that he walks on--to imbue himself--with that power.

Doesn't think it'll ever happen, though. Lindsey is too much a product of law school and Wolfram &amp; Hart: there are scales and ranks and measurable levels of success. Even if he has removed himself from it all and is just...Lindsey. Lindsey, walking this earth and hoping to stumble across something that makes sense along the way. Except he thinks he won't. He thinks he'll miss it all along the way, because that seems to be his pattern.

He's been doing it since he was recruited straight out of law school, and even more so since he was pitted against Lilah. Constantly focused on the little picture, the eight-and-a-half by eleven picture of evaluations and reviews. Signed on the dotted line by his superiors. Nodded at by the Senior Partners.

He's not really sure who Lindsey is, what that means. Took this little roadside trip in the hopes of learning something important--something deep. But nothing has jumped out at him. Nothing's tapped him on the shoulder and presented itself to him with a little placard that says, "Lindsey".

Gunn, safely removed from it all, has seen it, though. And that's why Lindsey calls him, even though it would be safer for everyone if he didn't. Listens to Gunn's easy, simple view of it and wonders if his life was always the confused mess of Wolfram &amp; Hart. Was there ever something easy, simple? He doesn't know. Back when he left L.A. he was sure there was. Hopes that some of Gunn's wisdom will stick with him. Like Gunn's a roadside attraction himself.

The further Lindsey gets from L.A.--geographically and mentally--the more confused things get. The more he forgets about who he was before getting to Los Angeles in the first place. It should be the opposite. It should be that he connects more with pre-L.A. Lindsey.

"Think it can work on people?" he asks Gunn. "That people can make themselves into something sacred--something worthy--just by thinking they are?"

And Gunn's voice comes across the line; gruff and sleepy and delicious in Lindsey's ear. It's like crystal clear water; cool and true and easy on the stomach.

"Dunno," Gunn tells him. "But I figure--why the hell wouldn't it?"

That doesn't really answer anything Lindsey's questioning. "Why the hell *wouldn't* it?" he repeats.

"It's like this," Gunn surmises in Lindsey's ear. "You got the belief, the worship of yourself, right?" Lindsey mumbles some kind of acquiescing sound and Gunn takes that as a cue to continue. "And you live with it for a while. Live with it day-to-day. It gets ingrained in you and shit. After a while it's like...well, where you walk? That ground's got that special power."

Lindsey's heard that things said when someone isn't fully awake are brilliant things, *insightful* things. It's always been the case with Gunn, but it doesn't actually work for everyone. Because he picked up a small mini-recorder in Omaha, and taped himself in those fateful hours between two and four in the morning, and his musings aren't very insightful. In fact, they're bland, boring. Regurgitations of nothingness.

Nothing worth really noting. Nothing notable in the least. Nothing like the utter brilliance that is Charles Gunn.

"Or maybe the ground you walk on is just full of your own bullshit," Lindsey drawls to Gunn.

Gunn laughs, a crystalline sound to Lindsey's jaded ear. "Guess it could be," he concedes. "But, you've got to keep perspective. Keep hope alive, right? So, instead of it being bogged down by crap, it's all uplifted by your positive thinking." A hard, knowing pause. "You do know about positive thinking, don't you? Not that new age bullshit. Just practical stuff."

And this is why Lindsey calls in the middle of the night, when Gunn is only partly conscious of the conversation. He gets the real deal from the other man. The no-holds-barred commentary. The honesty that no one else from his L.A life was aware of, and that no one he passes by in his new life can give since Lindsey doesn't make an effort to get past the niceties.

"Practical stuff," he sort of grunts. "Yeah, I think I remember that from way back when."

"You do," Gunn replies, his voice certain. "Like, the crops grow no matter what. Or some other country analogy that probably makes more sense."

Lindsey's lips twitch. "I know what you're saying." He pauses for a moment to pull the phone away from his ear and take a look at the elapsed time of the call. "I should probably get going. I'll try to get a secure line next time."

"Good, and while you're at it, maybe try to call when I'm awake and can actually participate in the damn conversation, huh?"

"Maybe," Lindsey hedges, grinning despite himself. "Take care."

"You too, man."

Too much of what he's learned about himself is tied up in Gunn. Has been for a while now, and leaving didn't change that. It's like Lindsey can't really look at himself unless it's through Gunn's eyes, by Gunn's lead. And that's dangerous, because he knows that as honest as Gunn is, when push comes to shove there are things he doesn't say because they haven't come up yet. Important things that drill right to the heart of Lindsey and define him at his core, at his basest level. Things Lindsey knows all about, but can't really get a bead on because Gunn isn't there to somehow make him believe them beyond acknowledging them.

There was a time when things were different. When Gunn was looking for something from Lindsey, too. But that ended when Lindsey left L.A. because Gunn had figured it out for himself by that point. Gunn doesn't seem to notice or care that things have gotten all one-sided lately. That Lindsey really has no purpose in his life anymore, nothing to offer.

But Lindsey knows and notices, and he's always worried every time he calls that Gunn's just going to hang up on him. He never does, though, and Lindsey can only be grateful for that.

He needs the clarity he gets during the middle of the night calls with Gunn, when the other man is half-awake and talking without thinking.

And he hopes that maybe some of it will make a difference. Call him a pessimist, but he doesn't think this quiet time of his is going to last forever. Sooner or later everything is going to hit the fan again and he needs to be prepared.


	8. Likeness of Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunn thinks about Lindsey; Lindsey thinks about Gunn. And there's a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was Jossed. Ignore it.

Every once in a while, in the middle of this strange, new life Gunn's living, he stops. Just comes to a dead stop and wonders what the hell he's done. Most of the time, he doesn't, though. He lives his new life and allows himself to be so busy that he doesn't have a thought to spare.

But sometimes? Well, sometimes he can't help it. The most unlikely times, too. Moments that should be thoughtless and insignificant. When the body should be on autopilot and the mind quiet of anything except maybe the phone calls that need to be made, the groceries that need to be bought, the laundry that needs to be done.

Gun steps out of the shower, his mind on all of those things at once. Wraps a towel around his waist and shuffles his feet on the bathmat before he crosses over to the sink. When he reaches up to wipe away the condensation so that he can see his reflection to shave, everything comes to a dead stop for him. Stares at the one eye he's revealed, then flattens his palm against the mirror and presses it hard, then drags it in slow, precise circles.

Watches more and more of himself come into streaked view and wonders who the hell that man is. Because it's not him. It's an unfamiliar face, with unfamiliar eyes. Was it the white room? The information downloaded into his head? Something else entirely?

Doesn't know. Decides that it doesn't really matter, either. Gunn's no longer a person he actually knows, and he's not sure whether it's good or bad.

His hand falls from the mirror and he looks at his brown eyes. They get lighter and lighter, then brighter and brighter, until they're a hazy kind of blue. He blinks and his eyes are brown again.

Backs away from the mirror, then hurries out of the bathroom entirely. His breath is stuck somewhere inside, and it hurts but he isn't sure if he needs to inhale or exhale. Does a little of both and finds that it still hurts.

He holds his slipping towel up with one hand, and reaches for the phone with the other. Angel's direct number is on speed dial.

"I'm not coming in today," he says as calmly as he can. "I'll have my secretary rearrange everything that needs to be rearranged."

"What's wrong?" Angel asks immediately.

Gunn shakes his head, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Mental health day," he says easily. "Getting a little stressed. Senior Partners didn't give me coping skills with all that knowledge. I seriously need to unwind."

Angel accepts that, and then Gunn's hitting another speed dial button, and arranging for meetings to be rescheduled or for other attorneys to take his place.

When that's done, he drops the cordless phone and finds himself walking to his bedroom door and closing it, and then standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of it that he only uses on his way out in the mornings.

Since Lindsey left town, Gunn's missed him. Not in a vague way. But in a burst of something that gets him right in the gut, then jerks him around. Started happening more often after Wolfram &amp; Hart got turned over to Angel and the rest of them. Because he got it, suddenly. Got where Lindsey was coming from right before he left.

It's constant. A constant slipping away. Gunn has to hold on tight with both hands, but he doesn't always remember to do it. Forgets that little fact and waves to someone, fixes his tie, flips through a book, or other things that require both hands, and he lets go of what he's trying to hold on to.

Wonders how the hell Lindsey managed it after Angel chopped off his hand. Because, yeah, the holding on thing is a metaphor but...but not entirely. There's that saying about idle hands, but Gunn thinks that maybe it should really be about busy hands that get distracted and let something slip right on through.

Steps closer to the mirror and wishes like hell Lindsey was there. Last time things got this turned around for Gunn, it was Lindsey that brought him back to his senses. Not by doing anything, just by being around. For a while, it was mostly Gunn just trying to figure out if he'd wandered so far from himself that he was some kind of not good/not bad mix. Faced down Lindsey and couldn't find himself at all in the other man, who was the textbook definition of not good/not bad.

And after that, it became about more. It was about Lindsey, with his little-boy-lost temper tantrums that just needed to be met with the same look Gunn gave to new members of his old crew: acknowledgment of the reasons for, and the validity of, the tantrum, but refusal to deal with it. And it was about Gunn, having a damn purpose in someone's life once again.

His forehead slaps against the mirror, and his hands come up on either side of his head and meet their reflections. Fingertips curl under so that it seems like he's trying to dig into it, right through the glass, and the silver backing. Hook himself on the sharpness so that he can't forget to hold on.

Knows now how much it took out of Lindsey, how much it cost him, to walk away. Just. Walk. Away. Lindsey was hooked on that sharpness, and he came to the decision and just pulled out. Like it was nothing to rip his flesh to shreds. And the thing is? For Lindsey, it wasn't. And for the first time, Gunn realizes just how much more there was to Lindsey than even he saw during all those nights and all that sex and all that looking at the other man.

He wants to see the rest. Wants to dive right into Lindsey and swim around for a while. Take in the sights without trying to compare anything to himself. Thinks there's a lot Lindsey could teach him right about now. About who he is, what he is, and where it's all going to take him. Things Gunn could learn without having to try. They'd kind of slip into him without him even realizing it, he thinks. They'd be secondary to Lindsey, to Lindsey and Gunn, to Gunn and Lindsey.

Pushes away from the mirror and his eyes are blue again in his reflection. He's a lawyer. He works at Wolfram &amp; Hart. He's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but not entirely good anymore. Sucks in air in a surprised inhalation that makes him choke a little.

It should freak him out. It does. But not as much as it should have. Because he did spend an awful amount of time looking at Lindsey, into him, through him, around him.

He blinks, watches an awed kind of expression come to the face in the mirror that he realizes he does know. Intimately.

***

He's not Lindsey. Not in anything more than shape and form, really. He's something else; something fired in the kiln of Haiti and painted with tattoos in New Orleans. But he has Lindsey's memories. Every last one of them. Can distantly recognize and identify the emotions attached to each of them without actually feeling them.

Tonight, Eve came to the room that is his prison, stripped herself down to her lovely flesh and then climbed into bed while giving him a synopsis of the day's events. Later, after she was a sated mess of smeared makeup, tussled hair and sticky fluids, she gave him details. And there was a second round, after she told him all of it, and his hands wrapped around her neck, and his eyes closed, and he slammed into her. She collapsed into an exhausted sleep before she could ask him anything, and she knows better to broach the subject outside of the moment.

He leaves her sleeping, a new circle of fingerprints around her lovely throat, and retreats to a chair in the corner of his room.

Thinks about Gunn, because he seems to be the only person Lindsey was never conflicted about, and his mind is often drawn to the anomaly. There's only startling clarity attached to Gunn, and he knows that if Lindsey still existed far back in the recesses of his mind, Lindsey wouldn't be worried at all about Gunn right now. Even though Gunn let the senior partners fuck with his head. Even though Gunn visits the White Room more frequently than the john, it seems.

He can't imagine that Lindsey's sentiments are entirely correct, given the falling in line Gunn's doing, but he thinks they might be. Wonders if Gunn will balk at the eleventh hour. Hopes it doesn't happen, but can't really alter anything at this point.

He's still sitting in the chair when Eve gets up and meanders over to him, all deliberately insouciant movements, even half-awake. When she presses a lingering kiss to his lips, he has a flash of Lindsey-memory:

Gunn, prowling from a creaky motel bed, movements naturally graceful and sleek, even half-awake. Lips that tasted of the essence of himself that Lindsey always found empowering and humbling at the same time, instead of some wax based lipstick whose fragrance deteriorates into something sickly without reapplication. Muscle and sinew of a tall frame connecting with the muscle and sinew of Lindsey's compact frame, rather than the alternating softness and bones that is Eve's slenderness.

"Gotta go, honey," Eve says regretfully, and he nods and waves a hand briefly. She pouts as she pulls her clothes back on, gives him a half-hopeful, half-annoyed glare on her way out of the room, but he's lost in memories that don't belong to him.

Finds himself glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Two-thirty in the morning. Thinks that maybe it's about time he start messing with heads, and doesn't acknowledge that there might be something of Lindsey still around when he picks up the cell phone.

It rings four times, and then a sleepy voice, trying to sound awake, answers. "Gunn, here."

"Gunn here?" he repeats, his tone slightly mocking. "That's a new greeting. Kind of pretentious, if you ask me."

The pause is a wide and gaping maw whose other side he can't see. But then it rushes to him, fast and dizzying, with Gunn's whispered, "Holy shit."

Reminds himself that the memories aren't his, that they don't touch anything in him. They're a movie, a television show. Knowledge of things, events and moments that happened to someone else. Isn't entirely successful, because it turns out that remembering Lindsey's stomach dropping at the sound of Gunn's gruff voice actually makes his stomach bottom out likewise.

And because he knows it all. Knows even the things Lindsey never fully acknowledged. That Lindsey used to lie awake in various beds in various states, thinking not about Darla or even Angel, but Gunn. Because Gunn made all the sense in the world when Lindsey was half an inch away from climbing a water tower with a rifle and picking off pedestrians. Gunn made all the sense in the world, period.

Knows that Lindsey would often find himself driving *towards* Los Angeles without realizing it, and once got as close as Phoenix before he came to his senses again. Knows that it stopped being about sex, or Lindsey's internal chaos, the moment he let Gunn into his apartment, and everything Lindsey told himself to the contrary was just bullshit, painted red and called a rose in skewed hindsight.

"Speak of the devil and he damn well calls," Gunn almost exclaims, something light and relieved in his voice. Something welcoming, as well. Welcoming in a way that even Eve doesn't make him feel. In a way that only Gunn ever made Lindsey feel.

"I'm the devil now?" he asks dryly. "When did that happen?"

"Know what I meant," Gunn mumbles, and he can hear the grin in the other man's voice. "Haven't heard from you since...shit. Been a while. A long while."

Not as long as Gunn thinks, because those last few calls got swept away with Angel's Connor mindwipe since they took place in the midst of that mess. A good thing, really, because Gunn would have a lot of questions to ask if he remembered Lindsey's very last, frantic, panicked call.

"Figured I should be on my own for a while," he tells Gunn. "Really on my own. Know what I mean?"

"Guess I do," Gunn concedes. "Gotta admit, though--coulda used a phone call a time or two recently. Things have been crazy around here. You hear about your old bosses?"

"Heard the L.A. offices were wiped out, restored, and put under new management. Imagine my surprise when word makes its way to me that it's your crew managing it. What the hell happened there?"

Gunn sighs tiredly. "Fuck if I know, man. It's all sorts of screwed up."

Leans back in his chair, rolls his neck to the side and figures he should at least be a little productive while he's indulging in sentiment that he shouldn't be feeling.

"Screwed up," he repeats slowly. "Screwed up like, you're in the belly of the beast, but you've got a solid plan to take it down from the inside? Or screwed up like, you did something stupid and somehow became a lawyer who even I--in exile--have heard about recently?"

Gunn starts to say something. Three times. Doesn't get any further than a half a syllable each time.

"On the good days?" Gunn says finally. "I think it's both."

He grins, slowly and widely. "And on the bad days?"

"On the bad days, I know it's only the stupid thing," Gunn admits heavily. "But, you know what I figured out today?"

"What?"

"I still know who I am; I'm just not who I used to be."

Hand reflexively clenches around the phone, and everything is sharp and delineated for him. Every carpet fiber under his feet. Ever pore on his chest, with the ink drilled into it. Every brushstroke that makes up the marks on the walls. Every bit of Lindsey that hasn't entirely left the building that he now occupies.

"Good to hear," he says faintly, clears his throat. "I need to...go."

"Already?" Gunn replies, an artless disappointment in his tone that causes memories to come crashing down all around him. "Look--don't be a stranger, all right? Cell's on twenty-four/seven."

"All right," he agrees.

Ends the call and places another one almost immediately. Eve shows up half an hour later, face confused as she hands him the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He sends her away brusquely, knows he'll have to smooth her feathers tomorrow, and it doesn't matter.

Paces the room, drowning himself in movement and motion, and opens the cigarettes and chain-smokes them, rapid fire. And there's nowhere for all that smoke to go, because the door is closed and so are the windows. It hovers in the room and it stings his eyes, and still he continues until the pack is empty.

Looks around and can't see anything clearly at all. Not the fibers in the carpet or the ink in his pores or the brush strokes on the walls. Not a single speck of Lindsey, either.

Crawls into bed, turns out the light, and is asleep a few minutes later.


	9. Blowing Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men in a bar, yo. This is how it ends. Kinda sorta.

Gunn knows better. He honest to God does. Knows better and yet he *still* finds himself parking his car a block away from the bar by the temporary offices he, Wesley and Cordy set up after Angel fired them. Still finds himself opening the door to the bar and letting it fall closed behind him as he stands there and waits for his eyes to adjust.

Sees the figure sprawled arrogantly in a chair at the usual table in the center of the room, a tight little smirk pulling at his lips. Lindsey gestures at the chair across from him, and Gunn realizes that Lindsey is sitting in Gunn's usual chair.

The hair is long again, falling against the sides of Lindsey's face, the ends brushing his skin like Gunn's fingers used to. Gunn's gaze tries to burn a hole through the black t-shirt Lindsey's wearing, like he's suddenly developed x-ray vision and will somehow be able to see those marks on his chest.

He can't, of course, and so he moves his eyes to Lindsey's. Even across the room, those eyes stand out. Electric blue in the dimness, bright against the blackness of his shirt. Gunn doesn't look away as he walks forward, and then takes a seat across from the other man.

Settles back, and still keeps looking into the familiar eyes he knows too damn well. The attitude. The unmet sense of entitlement. The dry humor. The anger. It's Lindsey, through and through. Couldn't be anyone else.

"Why?" Gunn asks finally, his voice faint and blurred around the edges. "Just--why?"

Lindsey shrugs, reaches out to the table to nudge a glass of beer in Gunn's direction, then lifts a half-full glass to his mouth and calmly downs the contents.

"Come on, Gunn," Lindsey drawls, a mocking amusement under that smoky voice that Gunn thinks should let loose with the blues instead of country, because if there was ever a voice made for blues, it's Lindsey's.

"You can't be this surprised," Lindsey continues, half smile on his full lips. "If you are, then I definitely pegged you wrong from the start. Since I don't think I did, why don't you drop the betrayed act. Doesn't suit you, anyway."

Gunn closes his eyes, blocks everything out and forces all the chaotic bits of himself to settled down where they belong. Forces himself to shed the slick lawyerly bullshit he's gotten coated with over the past few months.

Looks at Lindsey again, and knows his face has pulled and tightened into something hard and cold. "Why?" he asks sharply.

It's a different question this time, and Lindsey nods in approval as he picks up a bottle on the table and pours himself another measure of liquid.

"Still asking questions you already know the answer to. Bet that's what makes you the best and brightest at the new and improved Wolfram &amp; Hart." Lifts his glass in a toast that Gunn doesn't meet, grins wryly and takes a sip from his glass.

Gunn's tired suddenly. Down to his core like he hasn't been in years. Sinks back on his chair and rubs the top of his head. Yeah, he knows why. He really fucking does. It gets in the blood, poisons from the inside out, and it's not as easy as walking away. It never is, and Gunn used to know that like he knew his own name.

Picks up the beer and shoots back half the glass. He's breathing deeply when he sets the glass back on the table, his movements precise.

He feels like he's in some bizzaro universe. They've switched places, and not just at the table. Gunn's now working at Wolfram &amp; Hart, and Lindsey's trying to take it down. Except, not really. Lindsey's really just still trying to take Angel down. So maybe everything's the same as it used to be. Everything except Gunn and Lindsey, who are still exactly the same as they've always been, no matter what they try to tell themselves.

His eyes go to Lindsey's again, and there's layer upon layer of everything in those blue eyes. Thousands of layers, it seems to Gunn's tired eyes. And even though they're stacked neatly, one on top of the other, it's like they're transparent. Like Gunn can look from one to the next, see them all at once.

And the only one of them that's worth seeing is buried at the bottom, so far down that it's hard to make out. It never used to be. Gunn remembers when it was somewhere in the middle, and he remembers when it started getting closer to the surface. Closer, but never quite there.

"What the hell happened, Linds?" he asks quietly, bypassing his beer and reaching for the bottle. Yeah, and how well Lindsey knows him is there on the table in the guise of a second glass, just waiting patiently.

Gunn doesn't need to glance at the bottle to know it's whiskey. It's always whiskey. He fills the short glass almost to the top, brings it to his lips, and grounds himself in the burning sensation of half the liquid sliding down his throat.

"What always happens, Gunn?" Lindsey dismisses with a shrug, and for the first time since Gunn walked in, there's nothing arrogant, or cocky, or smug in Lindsey's voice. "Does it even matter?"

"Does it even matter?" Gunn repeats harshly, his eyes going wide. "You're jerking us around by the short hairs. I'd say it matters a whole hell of a lot."

Lindsey's eyes flare. "Ask Angel how much it matters," he grinds out, his teeth all but clenched. "Ask him how much a phone call means compared to his all-mighty decisions." His lips pull back from his teeth. "Doubt you'll get an answer, though."

Gunn shakes his head. "Typical Lindsey bullshit," he replies. "Your life gets jacked to hell and back *again* and you put the blame on someone else *again*."

There's a lot that Gunn never said to Lindsey back in the day. For a lot of reasons. But it bubbles to the surface, and he lets it loose.

"You want a newsflash, Lindsey?" he says, leaning forward and lowering his brows. "It's a few years late, but it still hasn't sunken in, so here it is: your damn hand wouldn't have gotten chopped off if you hadn't taken a job with Satan's Pet Attorneys in the first damn place. And another--Darla wouldn't have made a huge ass fool of you if you hadn't brought her back from the dead."

Shakes his head, leans back and watches Lindsey glare and snarl at him.

"You bring up Angel and, yeah, he's a big part of it. But you're the bigger part. You always are. And that's why your life is *always* going to get jacked to hell and back. Again and again. Because you bring it on yourself."

"You think you're so damn smart all of a sudden, don't you?" Lindsey hisses, and Gunn shrugs his shoulders. Lifts his hands. "Let's take a look at you, Gunn. Two fucking minutes of eye gazing with the Conduit, and you turned your back on everything you stood for and signed your damn soul away."

Gunn freezes, goes still and doesn't even blink. Trust Lindsey to voice what he's been afraid of.

"Then there's your brand spankin' new 'law degree'," Lindsey continues, the sibilance leaving his voice until it's just a hard, cold sound that rips into Gunn. "Eve makes a few loaded comments, gives you a card and--bam!" Lindsey slams a fist onto the table. "You let some quack shove shit into your head. What the *hell*? Your gave the Senior Partners access to your *head*." Lindsey points emphatically at his own temple, his face incredulous.

"You still don't even know what the hell they did, or what the consequences are, but you're not even thinking about that. And why the hell should you, when you traipse up to see the pretty cat every day."

Gunn starts, and there's a mean, knowing smile from Lindsey.

He lifts his first two fingers and points at his own eyes, then stretches out his hand so that the fingers point in the general vicinity of Gunn's. And damn it if Gunn doesn't see some kind of hazy line drawn between them.

"You cover your ass good. No one knows just how often you take the elevator to the White Room. Hell, according to my sources it's only once a week--and my sources are damn good. But we both know better than that."

Gunn is still frozen, and Lindsey's eyes lock on his as Lindsey brings his glass to his mouth, tosses back the last of the whiskey, then slams the glass down on the table.

"You think it comes without a price?" Lindsey asks rhetorically. "Think you won't have to pay with anything important when it's all said and done?" He laughs harshly. "Think you already haven't? Who's lying to themselves now, Gunn?"

Gunn takes a deep breath. Shit, he'd known better. He honest to God had. "You're right," he concedes calmly. "About all of it." Lindsey looks surprised, and Gunn casually picks up his drink, takes a sip. "You think that means I'm you, from back in the day. Thing is, I'm not."

"Yeah?" Lindsey asks, black humor dripping from his words. "Why is that? Because you're one of the good guys?"

Gunn shakes his head. "No. Because I give a damn about where it's going to take me, and you never did. Not until it was too late."

Lindsey runs a hand across his face. "Fuck. You think that matters? It doesn't mean jack shit, Gunn. Not *jack shit*."

Gunn's elbows come to rest on the table, and then his face is buried in his hands. "I know, all right? I know."

***

Lindsey curses under his breath. Had he really thought he'd be able to see Gunn and keep up some kind of half-assed distancing bullshit? He wasn't even able to do it when he called Gunn a couple of weeks back. Just two damn minutes on the phone and he was the old Lindsey again. Too damn close to it all. Too damn close to Gunn.

"What do you want me to say, Gunn?" he asks tiredly.

There's something close to a bitter laugh from Gunn, and Lindsey clenches his hands. Fuck. If there's one person who doesn't deserve to get stripped down to all the ugly stuff, it's Gunn. Lindsey remembers Gunn cleaning and fixing him up after Angel beat the crap out of him. Gunn doesn't deserve this. At all. But there's no getting around it.

"What do I want you to *say*?" Gunn says lowly and lifts his head, one small increment at a time. Precise. Deliberate. Just like his voice when he starts talking again. "I want you to say that you'll let this shit go, once and for all. I want you to say that you're leaving town again, and then I want you to say hello when you call me from some stupid roadside attraction."

Lindsey flinches, and Gunn closes his eyes briefly.

"Mostly, though, I want you to say that you're not Lindsey, that someone is squatting in your body."

"I can't say that," Lindsey replies stiffly.

Gunn regards him steadily. "Which one?"

Lindsey's hands tighten so much that he can feel his nails breaking through the skin of his palms. "Any of them. There are things--"

"Fuck things," Gunn bites out, eyes glittering irately as he leans forward. "Especially fuck things that 'Gunn doesn't understand'. Because I was sick of that two years ago, and I'm still sick of it. It's bullshit that's going on, and you know it. Don't blow smoke up my ass, Linds."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Lindsey says with a smile, and Gunn glares at him. "Goddamn, I've missed you."

Gunn's eyes widen. "*Don't* even go there. If it's just business, then you damn well keep it that way."

Lindsey wonders if he should be envious of, or disgusted by, what Gunn's just said. "Nothing is ever just business. Not for me."

"I see. It's just more important to get back at Angel for shit that was your fault, too, than it is to give a damn about me."

And Lindsey remembers the best part of his brief time away from all of this: no conflict. He wasn't hurting someone he actually gave a damn about--and if he wants to be honest, he more than gives a damn about Gunn--in favor of doing a dirty job.

"I'm sorry," he tells Gunn, and his voice is a whisper.

Gunn's face doesn't change, just stays set in hard lines. "I actually believe it," he says sharply. "But the words alone? They don't mean jack shit, Linds. Not jack shit."

Lindsey goes still, because condemnation from Gunn doesn't make him angry, the way it would from someone, anyone, else. It just makes him hurt for all the messed up shit both of them stepped into and can't escape. Even if they wanted to.

"Why'd you come here, Gunn? Just to ask me why?"

"I came here to see *you*," Gunn says simply. "But I don't know you anymore. Guess I never did, huh?"

Lindsey slashes a hand through the air, dismissing that immediately. "Not true. You knew me then, you know me now. You just want me to be irrevocably on your team, even though you know damn well I ride the fence."

Gunn's eyes sparkle, a glitter of stars in their dark depths, and Lindsey wants to shove the table out of the way and lose himself in Gunn.

"I used to wonder," Gunn says carefully, eyes still intense and starry. "Just the two of us. Some place where there wasn't an ocean of gray. Just nice and simple things."

Gunn's face sinks down, softens around the edges, and Lindsey knows that face so well it almost brings tears to his eyes. The face of the man who used to take up Lindsey's entire field of vision when Lindsey was sweating and panting beneath him.

"Somewhere," Gunn goes on, his voice low, "that it was safe for you to be you."

Oh fucking God. Lindsey can't breathe for a moment, and he can't blink. He can only stare at Gunn like he's some sort of apparition that he's been waiting for his whole goddamn life. Finally gulps in a lungful of air, and his lids slam shut.

It's all about the moment when something's possible, and it comes down to recognizing it as it happens. Hindsight is a vicious bitch, and Lindsey wants to tear her to pieces. Gunn could have come with him when he left, or joined him right after. And everything in the world would have been different.

But the moment's gone. Long gone. All Lindsey has to show for it is an ache in his chest for what could have been if only he'd been paying attention.

When he opens his eyes, he finds a stricken look on Gunn's face that he can feel mirrored on his own. But Gunn looks away, and Lindsey sees his profile slide into a mask of impassiveness. Lindsey doesn't even bother trying to school his own face to not show his feelings. It's a hopeless cause at this point, and he knows it.

"Do you need help, Linds?" Gunn asks flatly, the arch of his brown indicating that he knows what Lindsey's answer will be.

Lindsey shakes his head. "No, Gunn, but it means a lot that you asked. All things considered."

Gunn nods once, then looks around. "I won't be back."

And he won't be making another offer to help Lindsey out of the latest mess, Lindsey knows.

"Think about what I said," Lindsey tells him. "About the cost. Watch your back."

"You do the same."

Everything in Lindsey's life goes to shit, and Gunn's right about Lindsey having a hand in it all. He watches Gunn walk away and knows that the next time he sees the other man, he'll only be an adversary. There won't be anything left between them.

It sucks, and there's not much Lindsey wouldn't do to change it, except follow in Angel's footsteps and rewrite history. Mostly because he doesn't know how to get it rewritten, but also because he knows he'd just fuck things up again.

Lindsey knocks back another drink. There are machinations and schemes flying every which way, and they leave no place for anything but themselves. It's the story of his life.


	10. Ashes and Glass 1/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunn and Lindsey find some time for each other before the end. Set during S5 Finale Not Fade Away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only for [](http://obsessedmuch.livejournal.com/profile)[**obsessedmuch**](http://obsessedmuch.livejournal.com/), who loved my boys long before anyone else did, would I write G/L set during NFA.

Gunn planned on spending the day with Anne soaking up some sanity and some sense. Because he had the feeling that both those tanks were running on fumes, what with him agreeing to Angel's kamikaze mission.

But plans go awry. Gunn's got more experience than he wants when it comes to that. His mind kept wandering so damn bad that Anne eventually sent him away. Told him to get out of her face and go where he really wanted to go. Only, with nicer words and a great big hug.

***

The lock on the motel suite's door clicks open, and then Gunn is pushing Lindsey inside, and Lindsey is letting him. They barely manage to slam the door shut before their hands are reaching for material. Gunn gets tangled in his hoodie, hears seams give way before Lindsey finally tosses it to the floor.

Gunn's hands fumble with the huge, honkin' buckle on Lindsey's belt. Damn thing's the size of Texas.

"Fuckin' city boy," Lindsey says, pushing Gunn's hands away and undoing it himself.

The buttons on Lindsey's shirt, those Gunn knows, so he works at them, sending more than one flying across the room and not giving a damn because each one opens to give him a little more of Lindsey's chest.

Lindsey's hands are at the waistband of Gunn's pants. Must have taken care of the belt buckle, so Gunn finishes the job and unfastens Lindsey's jeans before shoving the shirt off of Lindsey's shoulders and just *touching* that chest.

Son of a bitch. It's been almost three years since they've been together like this, but he didn't forget, couldn't forget, the dips and rises, the sinuous bulges, the slightly rough texture of the skin. If Gunn hadn't been hard since they got in the elevator to come here, just touching Lindsey's chest would have done it.

For a change, Lindsey actually stays still for it. Lets Gunn plot the contours, relearn where it's concave, where it's convex. And Lindsey's panting, frozen still like a deer in the headlights, because motionless isn't his usual state, and his muscles are protesting the lack of movement and it's taking a whole lot of effort to give Gunn this moment of stillness.

It makes Gunn suck in a breath, because this is Lindsey--this chest, the instinctive motion, the blinding need to give of himself and have it taken--and it's all so familiar that his gut untwists from a knot he never realized was there.

Drags his eyes up and Lindsey's face is enough to fucking make him shoot right now. Long hair falling across cheeks, wide blue eyes with little yellow specks almost glowing, sweet lips parted and dry. It's sacrilege, those lips being dry, so Gunn leans forward, swipes his tongue across them, and it spins Lindsey into motion again.

Lindsey jerks and pulls at every bit of clothing his hands can find, whether it's Gunn's or his own. Twists his torso at the same time, trying to force Gunn's hands to his back, but it's been three damn years and Gunn's not ready to let go of what he's just found again. Not even to make Lindsey scream in pleasure. Keeps running his hands across Lindsey's chest, delves into Lindsey's mouth and it's a dizzying mess of tongue and lips and teeth, of warmth and wetness and whiskey, of giving and taking and needing.

By the time Gunn has to pull away for air, he and Lindsey are both naked.

***

Lindsey planned on spending the day with Eve. She's a sweet thing. Thinks she loves him in a forever-and-ever kind of way, and he's had a run of women who didn't give a flying fuck about him; her kind of love's pretty damn appealing in comparison, even if it's not the heart-stopping-mind-warping-passion-stirring love that Lindsey's used to.

He wanted to get another dose of her. Wanted to feel strong and capable; hold Eve close, rock her, tell her things would be fine and nothing would go wrong. And he did. For a while. But the thing about apocalypses? They're good for making a person crave what he needs, and not give a damn about what he wants.

***

Lindsey wonders if they'll ever make it further than three feet from the door. Figures there's a good chance they won't, and tells his joints to just suck it the fuck up. Because he's naked, and in front of him is an equally naked Gunn, whose hands have slowly worked their way around to Lindsey's back, and pretty soon they'll be doing more than just touching.

But hopefully not anytime soon, because he's good where he is right now, head bowed and pressed against Gunn's chest, feather-light touches on his spine making him arch back and curl away at the same time, the heavy weight of Gunn's cock rubbing against his. And that's just the physical. Doesn't even take account to all the shit that's going on in his head, too many thoughts racing all over the place, but with a recurring stream of *Gunn. Me. Again. Finally.* standing out.

It's been a thousand-plus days since they were in a room together without everything else making *this* impossible, and Lindsey remembers the too-short period of time when no more than two days would go by without them seeking each other out. But it feels like it could have been yesterday, because he hasn't forgotten anything. He remembers it all, with his head, with his skin, with his goddamn nerve endings. It's *Gunn*, and even if Lindsey manages to live a thousand-plus years, he doesn't think he could forget.

Slight tug on his hair, and he raises his head to meet eyes dark with passion and volatility.

"You with me, Linds?" Gunn asks, voice rough around the edges. "Am I not holding your interest?"

There's a quickly squashed urge to tell Gunn just how much of Lindsey's interest he's holding. They left the bullshit on the curb a while back, but they never progressed to putting things like that on the table.

"You could be," he says instead, insinuating smile and pointed glance down at his *interest*.

Gunn cups the side of Lindsey's head, palm pushing it back, thumb brushing across his cheek. "Think I'll make it that easy?"

Probably not, if he's asking. It'd piss Lindsey off coming from anyone else, but Gunn in this mood just makes him shiver in anticipation.

***

When he left the shelter, Gunn had no damn idea where he "really wanted to go". Drove around for a while, then slammed on his brakes and almost caused an accident when he passed the bar where he first really *met* Lindsey. It's a dank little place, just a few blocks from the office he, Wes and Cordy had after Angel fired them.

Stayed in the middle of the road until everyone behind him started leaning on their horns, then parked his truck around the corner when he decided that the spot right in front of him was too small for the truck.

***

A part of Gunn thinks this should be nice, steady, slow. But the rest of him ain't listening. The rest of him has Lindsey--naked and eager and shivering Lindsey--with those sweet lips and tight ass, standing in front of him. The rest of him is also thinking about the fact that Angel told him and the others that Lindsey was at the office with *Eve*.

Lindsey flinches and Gunn realizes he tightened his grip on the side of Lindsey's head. Lets go and glares down. "You come to me right from having a go with Eve?"

Anger flares brightly in Lindsey's eyes, fades away fast and is replaced with shock. "Jesus fuck, Gunn. *No*."

"Near enough," Gunn hisses and that small part of him is screeching and punching the rest of him, but it's not doing any good.

He's tired of there being someone else when he and Lindsey get together. First Darla, now Eve. Doesn't help matters that it's always been *just* Gunn with Lindsey. Just once, he'd like to have Lindsey to himself. For himself. Doesn't think that's too much to ask, considering just how many pieces he picked up when Lindsey was getting cut down to the bone by Darla.

Gunn can feel Lindsey behind him, hovering close but not touching, and Gunn wishes he could get past this, or figure out a way to pretend it didn't matter.

"I haven't fucked her since before I called you," Lindsey says, his voice so much a whisper that Gunn knows it's the truth. Lindsey and truth are awkward around each other, and it comes across. Always has.

Thinks back and remembers that Lindsey called him not long before they found out he was back in town. Gunn assumed it was from someplace far away. Realized later it was from across town. Weeks. No, *months* ago. Lets out a shuddering breath and knows he has no fucking right to Lindsey, and if he wants to talk about what he "deserves", it ain't Lindsey giving him exactly that.

But he's going to take it anyway.

***

Lindsey left Eve in Angel's office after making some bullshit excuse that he knew she didn't believe. Went down to the garage and grabbed a random set of keys. Turned out to be for the Porsche, and Lindsey barreled his way across town faster than should have been possible, given that this was L.A. and the traffic was constant.

Blared the horn at one point when the traffic stopped on the same block as his destination, then maneuvered the little car into a spot, right in front of the bar, that few other cars could have fit in.

***

It's a rare thing for Lindsey to see Gunn like this, off-balance and needy. Only happened one other time, and it was when Wesley took that bullet to the stomach. Lindsey hates it. Makes him furious, because Gunn should be exempt from shit that does that to a person. Lindsey? Yeah, that's his lot in life, chosen by him when he decided that he couldn't just play one side of the good/evil fence.

But it's not Gunn's, and the recent screw-ups don't change that. Not in Lindsey's mind, at any rate.

Pulls Gunn around to face him again and decides that they need to stop thinking and start doing, because time is ticking away and they've wasted enough of it already. Steps closer until they're brushing against each other, both of them soft thanks to that moment of reality, grabs the back of Gunn's neck and leans up to kiss him.

Wonders if maybe this is what he was trying for with all the holding and rocking of Eve, then takes his own advice and shuts his brain off.

Gunn probably has a taste that makes sense, but Lindsey's never been able to define it as a flavor. Slides his tongue along Gunn's and all he knows is purpose, strength, solidity. All the more potent and concentrated because it's newly regained. Runs his hands along all that skin that's just so damn close. Sleek chest, lean thighs, long arms.

And Gunn lets him. Sets a hand on Lindsey's waist, thumb tracing interconnecting circles, mouth following Lindsey's lead.

Drags his mouth down, licks at Gunn's neck and there's a shudder that works its way through Gunn, then a hand tangling in Lindsey's hair.

"Like the long hair," Gunn tells him, voice thick and heavy. Gives a tug and Lindsey hisses and shivers. "*Really* like the hair."

A considering look, then Gunn's touching his back, and Lindsey hisses and shivers again. Slow, sultry grin from Gunn as he tugs on Lindsey's hair again, and Lindsey jerks in his arms, tries not to hiss but fails.

"Oh, yeah," Gunn breathes. "This is nice."


	11. Ashes and Glass 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunn and Lindsey find some time for each other before the end. Set during S5 Finale Not Fade Away.

Gunn stood by the truck after he got out and wondered if he was insane. Leaving Anne to spend his day in a bar that'd probably be empty this early. Wasn't any point to it that he could see, except indulging in a whole lot of sentimentality for something that was never supposed to be sentimental to begin with.

Walked around the corner anyway and found Lindsey standing in front of the door.

***

First time Gunn kissed Lindsey, it was at Lindsey's swank apartment and they were standing kind of like they are now. Except they had clothes on. Not a change Gunn minds as he lowers his head to suck Lindsey's lower lip into his mouth.

Boy has a mouth that looks like it's made for sin. Gunn knows from experiences Lindsey's good enough with it to make it feel like sin and then some. Knows, as Lindsey gradually moves lower and lower, that he's about to drown in sin again.

Not a bad way to go. Or even to end with. Moment's got everything. Sight of pretty boy Lindsey on his knees, looking up at Gunn with a wicked little grin. Feel of Lindsey's wet, hot mouth on Gunn's cock, his tongue working every inch as it goes in and comes out. Sound of sucking and licking, of humming and husky laughter, intermingling with Gunn's groans. Scent of Lindsey, perpetual whiskey and anger even when he's fresh out of the shower and smiling, winding up to Gunn along with musk and salt. Feel of Lindsey's thick hair tangling in Gunn's fingers.

Moment's got something else, too. Determination to enjoy everything Lindsey's making him feel, because too many people have shit on what Lindsey has to offer.

That's the heart of it all. Gunn's been tied up in Lindsey since day one. Considered fading out of L.A. with him because Lindsey needed to be away from temptation, and with someone willing to take everything he had to offer and give back all the right stuff, to stay in line.

Today was supposed to be about reconnecting with the mission. Thought he'd find it with Anne, but he should have known better. He started up with Lindsey to define himself by his opposite. Stopped trying to put a mirror between them, and started looking at Lindsey through a pane of glass. Wound up remembering who he was when he saw Lindsey as Lindsey.

Break down the mission, reduce it to its smallest level, and the mission is Lindsey.

Gunn thinks that, whatever the hell happens tonight, at least he'll have fulfilled his mission--the real mission--right here and now with Lindsey.

"You with me, Gunn?" Lindsey asks, mocking humor lacing his voice. "Am I not holding your interest?"

Smiles down at the wild-boy smirking up at him. Slides his hands so that he's petting Lindsey's hair with one, and brushing the thumb of the other against that pretty mouth.

"Even when you're not trying to," Gunn tells him, stark moment of honesty that demanded to be put out there, because he's got a feeling tonight is going to end so damn badly.

And even if he's wrong about everything, he thinks the look on Lindsey's face is worth it: dumbstruck awe. Ain't a common occurrence, throwing the slick lawyer-boy off his game. Then Lindsey's face gets a little slack, and his eyes get real dark, and he rests his forehead against Gunn's abdomen for a moment, hands clenching on Gunn's hips.

"Same here," he whispers.

Then Gunn gaspsmoansgroanschokes, because Lindsey's working him like never before. Mouth tight and strong, like he wants to suck something less tangible than come from Gunn. One hand cradling Gunn's balls, fingers giving the exact right level of pressure to make Gunn almost scream from how good it feels.

And maybe Lindsey can get what he's trying to get because Gunn can't think straight and he can't define a damn thing about the moment, and all that makes sense is Lindsey's mouth on his cock, and *that* becomes the moment. Everything's there, and when Lindsey slides a hand back and works a finger into Gunn, the moment gets to be too much and he gives it all to Lindsey, and Lindsey takes every last drop.

***

Lindsey didn't bother locking up the Porsche. Just slammed the door shut and cursed at the passing cars that were making it impossible for him to cross the street to the bar. To Gunn. It never occurred to him that Gunn might not be there. Gunn had been there every damn time Lindsey had gone there.

Finally got across the street and was about to open the door to the bar when Gunn walked around the corner.

***

They actually do make it more than three feet from the door. Gunn drags Lindsey up from the floor, kisses him all hard and bruising, then leads them through the sitting room of the suite to the bedroom. To the bed.

Lindsey falls back, and Gunn stands over him, just looking down. Lindsey makes a show of licking his lips, taking another taste of Gunn, and Gunn's eyes flare like fireworks are going off somewhere in his head. Does it again and Gunn tosses himself on top of Lindsey.

Slides a hand between them and Lindsey's back arches when Gunn's hand wraps around his cock. "Holy fuck, Gunn. Too damn long."

Gunn puts his mouth close to Lindsey's ear, and Lindsey's shivering before he even says a fucking word. Man's got a hundred-proof voice, and it's like mainlining moonshine when he talks to Lindsey when they're fucking around.

"Broke me with that mouth of yours, Linds." Starts stroking Lindsey's cock, and Lindsey almost bucks him off. "Think it's only fair I get some payback."

Which sounds like he means one thing, but with the way he's moving *behind* Lindsey, he apparently means something else. Gunn sits with his back against the headboard, spreads his legs and tugs Lindsey up to sit between them. Back against chest, legs touching, Gunn's hand on his goddamn cock, mouth right next to his goddamn ear.

"Should be illegal how damn hard you made me come," is how Gunn starts, and Lindsey already knows he'll be saying the same thing to Gunn when this is over.

Because Gunn knows how to get to him. Knows the strings of words that burrow through Lindsey's skin and skate along his nerves and right to his cock. Talks about how good Lindsey blew him, and they both know it's not the dirty talk that's getting to Lindsey. It's what's buried just a layer underneath, and Lindsey won't call it what it is because he can't acknowledge the import of him and Gunn. Not now, not then, not ever. Give that layer its proper name and it'll all be too damn real and it'll turn to ash.

But Gunn keeps pouring it into his ear, shooting it into his veins, skating it along his nerves, and Lindsey wants to scream at him to stop, but he can't remember what, exactly, Gunn should stop, because it's so goddamn good that he's going to have a coronary any fucking second now, and why the hell does he want it to *stop*?

And around the time that Gunn calls Lindsey *his*--about five times in one breath--Lindsey remembers what he wanted Gunn to stop and why. But it's too late because it's real now. It's all real.

"Gunn," he chokes out, and he sounds panicked and pissed and scared, and he's shaking for those reasons now, instead of the good ones.

Gunn wraps his free arm around Lindsey's chest. Pulls him in tight. Kisses his neck. "It don't matter now, Linds. None of it matters a damn anymore."

His hand is still pumping Lindsey's cock, and Lindsey's having a hard time forming words, but he tries. "No. It'll--won't." Sucks in a crazed breath and tries again. "Ashes. Things--"

"Ain't nothing after tonight," Gunn whispers, forehead pressed against the side of Lindsey's head, hand moving fast and hard, twisting on the upstroke, palm brushing against the head of Lindsey's cock every damn time. "Know what matters? This. You and me, Linds."

He's made it even *more* real, and if the world as they know it doesn't end tonight, then *this* will. Somehow, someway. That's just how shit goes in Lindsey's life, and he wants to be pissed at Gunn for destroying something that Lindsey's spent a fuckload of energy protecting with casual indifference, but it's not something that he can be angry about.

Because Gunn's the reasonable one. Always has been. Knowing that Gunn would slam him with logic and practicality and reality was all that kept Lindsey in check sometimes. And now it's real, and it was the reasonable one that made it that way, and all Lindsey can do is fumble behind him to grab hold of Gunn, thrust up into Gunn's hand, slant his ear towards Gunn and stay quiet as he can so that he can hear everything Gunn has to say.

Pouring and shooting and skating, and Lindsey's body is vibrating, and he can't tell where Gunn's hand stops and he starts. And then Gunn pushes him forward, bares his back and feeds all those words into the sensitive skin there, rubs them in with a hand, seals them inside with lips and tongue, and Lindsey is over the edge, tensing and screaming and exploding like the fireworks he saw behind Gunn's eyes.


	12. Ashes and Glass 3/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunn and Lindsey find some time for each other before the end. Set during S5 Finale Not Fade Away.

Gunn's steps slowed when he caught sight of Lindsey. Felt something click and smiled as wide as Lindsey did.

"Fancy meeting you here," Lindsey drawled, eyes twinkling.

Gunn shrugged. "Can't beat a dank place to drink."

Lindsey arched a brow at the bar, turned back to Gunn. "Couldn't think of a better way to spend what might be your last day?"

And there was seriousness there, just under the teasing. Gunn smiled slightly and let his gaze drift across Lindsey's face. "Ain't a better way."

Took the weight out of the moment by raising his brows, twisting his lips up. "'Sides, figured I owed you for all the fancy motels you sprang for."

Corners of Lindsey's eyes crinkled. "That right? Let me guess--you're thinking of that suite at the Hilton."

"Read my mind."

***

A time limitation is a great motivator, but draining orgasms are even greater. Gunn watches Lindsey fall asleep, then drifts off himself. Feels like only a few minutes have passed when he wakes up and finds Lindsey watching *him*.

Can't stop himself from glancing at the clock, but won't think about the fact that he's only got two hours before he has to book it across town to that slimy politician's office. Three hours total until everything goes to hell, most likely literally.

And there's too much shit he wants to do right now. Wants to have some beers with Lindsey and talk law, of all fucking things, because Lindsey's mind is a twisting, winding landscape and this is the first chance Gunn has had to lead the walk down it. Wants to listen to Lindsey sing, because he's only heard it once and he never could bring himself to ask Lindsey to sing for him when Lindsey called from the road.

Hell, he even wants to just hang out with Lindsey and *not* have sex, because they never really got to do that before what with having to keep everything on the down low. Okay, well, they did it that one time after Lindsey got all busted up by Angel, but Lindsey passed out from pain pretty damn quick, so it wasn't like it was bonding time or anything.

But, Gunn isn't going to be doing any of those things. Or not doing them, far as that last one's concerned.

Because he used to think that Lindsey's eyes were full of layers, all the important stuff hidden and protected way down at the bottom. But right now? Right now there ain't a layer to be seen, and all that's there is the important stuff. Bright and clear as day.

Lindsey's never looked better, far as Gunn's concerned, and he's just about to shoot forward and kiss Lindsey, but Lindsey kisses him first, all soft and gentle, and it's not a kiss they've had before.

It makes Gunn think about Fred, and that's a first, since Lindsey was before Fred. But she told him one time about symmetry. Said that if symmetry had broken different, then everything in the world would be different. Gunn's not sure of the workings of it, but that doesn't matter. He just knows that there's got to be an equivalent with him and Lindsey. Knows that if something had broken different for one or both of them, then their entire world would be different.

Maybe if him and Lindsey hadn't gotten sucked into the fight... Maybe if they'd been on the same side of it... There's a million maybes, and at least one of them has to lead to him and Lindsey getting more than a few hours together every once in a while.

But maybes aren't here and now, and Lindsey doesn't deserve Gunn thinking about bigger and better things, so he pushes that from his head at the same time that he pushes his tongue into Lindsey's mouth. They sit up, mouths still working each other, and there's bitter sleep-taste on both their tongues, but it gets swept away pretty fast. And then there's the whiskey of Lindsey, and whatever it is that Lindsey thinks Gunn tastes like, and they both groan and reach out to grab.

But they pause for a second, and their hands aren't tentative or anything like that, just slow and easy. Gunn runs one of his from Lindsey's shoulder, all the way down to his wrist, and it's not coincidence that it's Lindsey's right hand that Gunn's lacing his fingers through and holding tight.

Lindsey's other hand is at Gunn's face. Cupping it with his palm, caressing it with his fingers. And they pull back, mouths moving apart, and Lindsey's pupils are small and tight, and his gaze is like a shining thing that Gunn thinks he can kind of feel.

"Want to..." Lindsey's voice falters, like he doesn't know the words he wants. But the truth is that he knows and is afraid to say. "To--"

Gunn covers his mouth, kisses his temple. "I know. Give me a sec, okay?"

Goes to the sitting room and finds his pants in a heap. Pulls out his wallet and takes out the condom. Then he just stands there, because he wasn't really planning on this. Remembers that Lindsey wasn't surprised to see him there. Finds the lube in Lindsey's coat pocket and smiles a little before heading back to the bedroom.

Stops in the doorway and takes a moment to just...take Lindsey in. The sheet's been tossed off, and Lindsey's all bunched muscles and tanned skin. He's sitting with his back against the headboard, little frown between his brows, head turned towards the unblocked windows that are letting in the sun that won't be out much longer.

Sees a little smile come to Lindsey's lips before he hears, "Gonna admire the view for the rest of the day?" Turns to Gunn and it's a full-blown smirk. "Or come take a closer look?"

Gunn walks to the bed and Lindsey watches him, eyes getting darker and cloudier, tongue sneaking out to lick his lips, and Gunn's cock starts getting hard just from that little movement.

Climbs on the bed and makes Lindsey spread his legs. Kneels between them and drops the lube and condom on a pillow, then takes Lindsey's face in his hands. "Want to tell me what's twisting your head all up?"

Lindsey blinks. Brings his hands up to hold on to Gunn's wrists. "Can't be that much of a mystery," he says, eyes flickering towards the clock.

But Gunn knows Lindsey too damn well to buy that. "If that was the case? You'd be angry, instead of...whatever you are right now."

"It's not important, and the clock is counting down. Let's not waste it."

Lindsey turns his head, clever tongue finding the pad of Gunn's thumb. Gunn tightens his hold just a little, pushes Lindsey's head back where it was.

"No," he tells Lindsey. Tilts Lindsey's head up and stares down into shifty blue eyes. "Talk to me, Linds. Please."

Gunn thinks it's the 'please' that makes Lindsey's lids lower in defeat, makes him sigh a little.

"Have to have it all, don't you?" Lindsey mutters.

"All of you? Hell, yeah. Only fair, since you've got all of me."

Lindsey starts, his eyes flying open in shock. Gunn smiles a bit, but not too much, because this is serious and Lindsey's got to understand.

"This hasn't ever been what it's supposed to be, and we both know it. May not have said it, but we knew it. I'm not sorry about that. Never have been."

"Now you're lying," Lindsey says, pulling his face out of Gunn's hands. "Regretted it since you found out I was back in L.A."

Gunn shakes his head. "No, I didn't. What I regretted was that you didn't ride off and find some peace. Never regretted *you*. Never will, either." Sits back on his heels and watches Lindsey swallow thickly. "Tell me what you were thinking about when I came in here."

"I don't want it said," Lindsey tells him, insecurities trembling around a core of steel.

"I know. I know, Linds."

"I'm a selfish fuck."

He says it like it's some kind of confession. Like Gunn hasn't always known that Lindsey gives just about everything he has when he cares, but also does whatever he can to keep it. Like getting Drusilla to turn Darla.

Like telling Gunn to keep something big and significant to himself, something Lindsey damn well knows that that Gunn *needs* to say. Lindsey's afraid the words will put everything out there in the open. Put it all in danger. So he'll make Gunn hold it in, deny Gunn hearing it. Just to keep things the way he wants them, and to hell with how Gunn wants them.

Gunn has to bite back laughter, because Lindsey's beating himself up over this, but Gunn knew it was coming. Got as close as he could to saying what he needs to say, hearing what he needs to hear, earlier when Lindsey was sitting between his legs. Knows that Lindsey has decided that the almost-saying didn't really put them in the danger he thought it did earlier, but that really-saying will.

Doesn't matter, though. Because it was enough for Gunn, the almost-saying and almost-hearing, and it's not that he's just taking what he can get, it's that he knows that Lindsey trying to protect this says more than even the words themselves.

"Yeah, you are a selfish fuck," Gunn says with a grin. "But you're *my* selfish fuck, so it's all right."

Sometimes Gunn wants to be able to hear what Lindsey thinks. Like right now. Lindsey's gone still and he's got some kind of automatic shield up in front of his eyes that makes it impossible for Gunn to figure out what his reaction is. There's a million things it could be, but Gunn thinks they've covered what's important already, and it's time for him to show Lindsey the words, because Lindsey didn't tell him he couldn't do that.

Moves them both around so that they're lying on their sides, facing each other, and then Gunn shifts forward. And it's full body contact, miles of skin against skin, and that's all that's in Gunn's head.

***

Lindsey left the Porsche where it was and followed Gunn to his truck. Felt a wave of nostalgia for his own truck, and Gunn glanced at him.

"Didn't sell yours, did you?"

"Stored it."

Didn't say that he almost did sell it, once or twice, but couldn't bring himself to do it because it had reminded him of Gunn, who had pulled off a miracle and replaced the windshield that Angel's little joyride destroyed. Gunn had done it so that Lindsey could leave town as Lindsey, and he'd never forgotten that.

"Kind of like that first night, huh?" Gunn said, slanting his eyes in Lindsey's direction at a red light.

Meeting up at the bar. Driving off in Gunn's truck.

"Little bit of full circle, yeah," Lindsey agreed.

***

Lindsey doesn't have an experience to tie back to what's happening with him and Gunn right now. Because he doesn't think he's ever had this kind of sex. The kind that's passion reigned in by something deeper and more. The kind that's like worship and reverence. The kind that makes his chest get so tight he thinks it'll never loosen again.

That makes him wish he asked Gunn to come with him when he left, come after him when he was gone, leave with him tonight.

Gunn's exploring Lindsey's body like he's never seen it before, never licked and touched and kissed every inch of it. But the proof that he's done all of that is in the way he knows just where to lick, where to touch, and where to kiss.

And Lindsey wants to do some of it in return, except that Gunn's making his head swim so fucking much that he can't make his body do anything but respond to what Gunn's doing.

Gunn looks up from sucking at the back of Lindsey's knee, says, "Let me have this, Linds."

It makes Lindsey's clouded head turn in circles, because Gunn's taking from him and giving to him at the same time--and that's not unusual, because that's just Gunn--but what he's taking isn't what Lindsey's used to. In fact, Lindsey can't figure what the hell Gunn's taking at all.

"Have what?" he manages to ask.

"This," Gunn whispers, then sucks again and watches Lindsey's body shake and tremble. "And this," he goes on, scraping his nail lightly along Lindsey's thigh and watching Lindsey's back arch.

Something else Lindsey doesn't have a frame of reference for, but that he's more than willing to go along with.

It's a haze of sensations and uncontrolled reactions, and Lindsey gets lost in it, feels the hard, hot length of Gunn brushing against him, pressing against him, and finds it with his hand. Revels in the soft exhale that comes from Gunn when Lindsey ghosts his fingers along him, reverence and worship a continuing self-fed cycle that feels like it's never going to end.

Gunn tries to turn Lindsey over to focus his attention on Lindsey's back, but Lindsey won't let this be entirely like Gunn wants. Sits up instead and directs one of Gunn's hands to his back, the other to his chest, and Gunn's eyes blaze as he kneels next to Lindsey.

And Lindsey turns his head to the side, gives Gunn his eyes because Gunn always wants Lindsey's eyes, and it's never been like this when they look at each other. It's never been like there's this warm, smoldering thickness that binds them together. It's never been like home.

Lindsey forgets about twisting and writhing between Gunn's hands, and Gunn forgets about moving those hands. They stare at each other, and then Gunn moves real slow. Lowers his head and touches his lips to Lindsey's, and it's like what was strung between their gazes is strung between their lips. Easing off their tongues and passing back and forth as Gunn lays Lindsey down again. Settles between his legs and brings their cocks into contact.

More smoldering home, and Lindsey wants it to never end. Wants them to get caught into a loop and reply this over and over. Never let them get to what comes after, when they put Angel's plan into action.

"Linds," Gunn whispers. "Can't wait no more."

It's Lindsey who gropes for the condom and lube. Passes it to Gunn with hands that aren't all that steady. Watches Gunn sit back and unroll the condom then slick himself up. Watches Gunn put extra on his fingers before tossing the tube aside.

"Missed this," Lindsey tells him. Gunn tilts his head to the side, like a challenge, and Lindsey knows he can't spin it like that when he went ahead and took so damn much from Gunn to start with. "Missed *you*."

Small smile from Gunn. "Missed you too."

Lindsey starts to turn over, but Gunn places one of those large hands of his on Lindsey's stomach. Holds him in place. And Lindsey knows what it means, before Gunn gives him a steady look and asks if it's okay. Like there's a chance in hell that it's not.

Like it's not the rightest thing in the whole goddamned fucked up world, having Gunn slide his fingers inside, watching Gunn come closer and closer to him, having Gunn's body press him against the mattress, feeling Gunn's cock push into him while staring up into dark brown eyes.

Lindsey's used to out-of-body experiences when Gunn fucks him, but right now it's like he's glued to his skin and he's not going anywhere. He's pinned there under the weight of Gunn's gaze, and he doesn't want to be anywhere else, and for one crazy second, he flashes back to the basement: unable to move while that thing came closer and closer, laying there and waiting for his heart to get ripped out of his chest.

When he blinks it away, Gunn is about to pull out, and that's the last thing that should happen, so Lindsey shakes his head frantically. Wants to touch his heart, Gunn's heart, feel them beating, but he can already feel it where they're joined, and they're pulsing out of synch and there's no space for silence there.

"Linds, should I--"

"No! Fuck no."

Gunn listens to him, thank God, and it's like swaying, rising up to Gunn, falling back to the bed. Taking Gunn in, reluctantly giving him up. Pushing against that pulse, pulling back so that his own can race out of control. And the basement is a distant memory now. Everything is a distant memory except that pulse, the swaying, and the way their gazes are locked.

Sweat's dripping off of Gunn, falling on Lindsey, and he thinks they're tears for a moment and there's a wave of horrified shame that washes over him. He's a selfish bastard, and Gunn's too fucking good to him. Giving Lindsey *this* in return.

And it's more than home now. It's life. How the hell did he leave this? How the hell *will* he leave this? Fuck if he knows. Because he doesn't think it'll be possible. Doesn't think all of this...home will disperse when he and Gunn finally look away, finally separate their bodies.

Gunn starts moving faster and harder and deeper all at once, and they curse and whisper and press tightly to each other. And this is something Lindsey will do anything to keep--this roiling sensation of home and belonging that he feels with Gunn.

"Touch yourself, Linds. Want you with me."

Lindsey strokes himself in time with Gunn's thrusts, more pulsing, more swaying. It's peace and this is why he couldn't find any when he was away. Everything makes sense and it builds inevitably in Lindsey, sinking away from elsewhere and pooling in his stomach, shooting down to his cock.

Darla and Eve. Exile and revenge. Angel and Wolfram &amp; Hart. Gunn was right. None of it matters. Not in the face of this. And maybe he gets the other stuff now. Maybe he knows what all the shit that Angel spewed at him, and he zoned out for, is about. Because there isn't anything he wouldn't do for this.

They're just moving now, letting their bodies do what they will, and Lindsey knows the movements, because the movements are Gunn and Lindsey: rough around the edges, real and harsh, easy and gentle. It's them, pulsing and roiling and brazen, with whisper-gasps saying everything and nothing, and blue pinned by brown. It's never-meant-to-be feeling so damned good and right, and two people, who never should have had a word to share with each other, sharing the best damn thing Lindsey's ever had.

And when Lindsey comes while staring up at Gunn, it's like he's letting everything else go except what he's clenching so hard to keep. Gunn jerks forward, freezes, then shudders, and Lindsey thinks of benediction and grace and baptism--things that he hasn't thought about since he was living back home and his mama was still alive--and how they're always kept from him by the thinnest of barriers

But then Gunn collapses on him, and Lindsey knows that this time it's not sweat that's falling on his forehead, and he can't deny it anymore. Opens his mouth, but Gunn leans over and covers it again.

Looks at Lindsey with warm, haunted eyes. "I know, Linds."

***  
.End


End file.
